


from hollow into light

by stormcoming



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Disability, Eliot Waugh's deeply reluctant therapy sessions, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: 3x06, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Resurrection, Suicidal Thoughts, Switching, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 125,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormcoming/pseuds/stormcoming
Summary: Are they forever going to be crashing through each other’s lives like this? They can’t quite seem to converge without a stomach-swerving sort of chaos—not in this world, in this timeline. Certainly not intentionally and mutually, or without shame, regret and shouldn’t haves. So many mistakes that surely didn’t add up to anything worth learning from. Because of course he shouldn’t have slept with Eliot and he shouldn’t look at him either. Not the way he wants to. The way he knows he always has, even when Alice was right there, sharp-eyed and silent, watching Quentin want things he couldn’t have.Quentin never has been very good at stopping himself from wanting.Or: Quentin and Eliot have a lot to work out before they can find their way back to one another. And then a whole lot more after that.
Relationships: Background Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, brief Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn
Comments: 169
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fix-it fic. I was late to the Magicians party and like most people I had a LOT of feelings to process after s4. It's my first fic in this fandom and first longfic so I'm very nervous but excited to share :D
> 
> There are 16 chapters over 4 parts. The fic starts somewhere after 3x06, dips into some of s4 and then it's canon non-compliant after 4x13. It's nearly all drafted and will definitely be completed, posting weekly. 
> 
> **Content notes** : detailed depiction of depression, suicidal ideation, grief and mourning. There's a sexualised element to some of the interactions between Quentin and the monster that builds on and is maybe juuust slightly above canon-typical but it's not explicit. The 'implied/referenced dubious consent' tag is for discussion of Quentin's past sexual history e.g. situations like the scene with Poppy in 3x08.
> 
> Overall, it's pretty heavy on the angst but there are definitely plenty of lighter moments and an eventual happy/hopeful ending. It's just gonna take a while to get them there!
> 
> ** The events in the mirror world leading up to and including Quentin's death are briefly narrated from his POV—I totally understand this subject matter is upsetting (I have cried too many times about this show, honestly) so please take care <3 I'll put more specific content info in the end notes for each chapter. 
> 
> Fic title and title of part one are both from [Fix Me Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUD03-LP-xs) by Garbage.

###  **Part One**

####  **things don’t have to be this way**

_“What exactly do you want here, Q? I’m not him, you know. I can’t be him.”_

_"Believe me, I know that.”_

Though in a way he’s glad to be rid of it, Quentin can’t believe he’s lost the fourth key. Or, well—it’s gone, at any rate, and getting it back is going to entail yet another of the convoluted death-trap schemes their weird-ass lives have become synonymous with.

Also, Benedict is dead and it’s pretty much his fault. Quentin tries not to think about it but his stomach seethes with guilt and acid—he should probably eat something—and the cottage, usually such a safe haven, feels oddly cramped, its walls seeming to twitch around him, hemming in his thoughts as he paces the length of his bedroom.

Thinking about his problems has never led Quentin anywhere he particularly wants to go, so he tries to keep his mind firmly focused on the quest, which has plenty of its own problems that need solving.

_You know what parents teach you about emotions—_

Except there’s already a plan in motion to get Victoria and Harriet on board. It’s just a case of waiting now, really, slotting the last few pieces into place so they can rush headlong into whatever batshit crisis the quest throws at them next. Quentin almost relaxes at the thought. More than anything, he just needs to keep going, get this shit done already and onto the next.

Even so, after the idyllic sun-drenched freedom of the boat quest had turned into a literal horror show— _I’m sorry, Your Majesty_ —Quentin’s practically vibrating with the need for some alone time. A nap had initially seemed like a great idea, get the fuck away from everyone and recharge his batteries in the process. But now he’s finally by himself, all of his ugliest thoughts are starting to flood back in. Most of them are well-worn by this point, their grooves lacerated into his neural pathways: _no one wants to hear about your made-up fantasy bullshit Quentin no one cares about anything you have to say have you considered maybe shutting your goddamn mouth for once burn that fucking kids’ book and grow the fuck up._

The depression monster hadn’t needed to dig very deep to unearth the things that squeeze Quentin’s chest tight and make his heart palpitate, the things that paralyze him sometimes when he looks at Julia, the pain he caused her, however unwittingly— _got your best friend sexually assaulted_ , his misery twin had said, and with much more conviction that Quentin himself could muster when he tried to argue back.

Then there were the new additions— _I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I’m a terrible failure—_ Quentin scrubs at his eyes in defeat, unable to quell the ugly torrent of shit his malformed brain spews out on a regular basis— _you got Benedict killed for fuck’s sake why are you still hanging onto everyone haven’t you got the message by now? They don’t want you around you’re embarrassing yourself and if you weren’t so weak Benedict would be alive and we’d have the key and everyone wouldn’t have to scramble to fix yet another of your messes and god you’re so pathetic as if Eliot would—_

Quentin lets out a loud and deliberate sigh that scrambles the frequency for at least a full second as he flops rigidly onto the couch and draws his knees up tight against his chest. It’s probably still a good idea to try and sleep, even if it’s never going to happen. But sitting down might’ve been a mistake; now he’s here, Quentin can barely imagine making it the few feet over to the bed.

_They only keep you around because they feel sorry for you, Alice hates you and who wouldn’t after everything you’ve done Jesus what a fuck-up you are thinking you can play at being the hero win a few scraps of their approval and now look at you—going to have yourself a little panic attack, are we? Do you really need the attention that badly?_

He presses his forehead into his knees, whole body clenching in an effort to suppress the tears he knows are coming. Quentin’s always been quick to tears and he’s always hated it, even when he’s alone. Breathing in shakily, he tries to rationalize with himself. Countless psychiatrists and therapists have insisted this is the key to defeating the dark turn of his thoughts. Don’t give them any credence. Talk back. Okay, he thinks, I’m okay and I’m not even _having_ a panic attack and even if I _was_ , nobody else is here, so I’m hardly putting on a show.

_Your whole fucking miserable life is a show, shoving your sadness in everyone’s faces all the time. You know you do it to yourself, all of it, always making yourself sick._

Well that worked just great.

As Quentin’s reaching for a half-drunk bottle of cheap wine, a quiet knock fills him with a tumult of dread and relief. Each intensifies in roughly equal measure when it’s Eliot who enters. He hadn’t expected to see Eliot at all and there aren’t really words for how he looks; regal and haughty in his Fillorian silks, the set of his jaw a little mean like always. Yet at the same time, there’s a strange hesitancy as he lingers in the doorway, as though he’d like to change his mind but can’t back out now. Quentin can see the moment he commits, the indecision dissolving as he closes the door behind him.

“Uh, hey.” Quentin falls back on his usual habit of trying to act normal in the hopes that he will actually appear normal. “Eliot!” It’s not working.

“What are you doing here?” Quentin squawks, clearing his throat. “Is something wrong?” Thankfully Eliot doesn’t comment on the high-pitched strangle that’s coming out of Quentin’s mouth instead of actual words. Eliot’s good like that. He can be a real dick sometimes, but for some reason Quentin’s social ineptitude has remained mostly off-limits thus far in their friendship. Probably there are better targets out there for Eliot’s practiced disdain than the low-hanging fruit of Quentin’s many and varied inadequacies.

 _Or maybe he just likes you?_ But if that were true then—Quentin slams the door on that line of thinking.

He’s not disdainful now, though of course Eliot manages to make his perch on the arm of the couch look elegant somehow, like pretty much everything he does. He’s only half-facing Quentin, who’s feeling more rigid and alien by the second, an old familiar panic rising in him as Eliot says in that irreverent way of his, “No, no. I mean, sure, Margo and I have hatched a daring plot to blackmail the Fairy Bitch which is almost certainly going to backfire terribly and ruin all of our lives. But aside from that? Same old.”

Before Quentin can process this—he can barely keep track of Fillory’s political machinations these days—Eliot’s already waving it away with a chuckle.

“So what’s up with you? Your dragon lady friend said you were up here sulking.”

Hackles raising, Quentin finds he can’t easily access their usual flow of back-and-forth banter, and he also can’t help bursting out, “She’s _not_ my friend—and I’m _not_ sulking.”

“He said, sulkily.” Eliot snorts, not even trying to suppress his laughter.

“Well, Benedict’s dead,” Quentin counters, feeling at once satisfied and immediately shitty for using Benedict to score points like this. Even worse, it’s almost worth it for the way Eliot visibly softens, turning to face Quentin properly.

“I heard,” he says. “I’m sorry. I also heard about your truly insane plan to visit the Underworld for a second time?”

“Um, you’re one to talk about insane plans. But no, it’s not me,” Quentin explains. “Penny’s going to find the key. Benedict had it when he—”

“Right.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Quentin shivers as Eliot settles onto the couch next to him, his long legs splaying out as he leans back, hands resting loosely in his lap.

They pass the bottle between them in silence before Eliot says, “It’s pretty messed up. What happened.”

“This whole quest is turning out to be pretty messed up,” says Quentin, dropping his head back tiredly, fingers gripping his knees. His stomach hurts. He really does need to eat something.

“Not all of it,” Eliot says, so quietly Quentin half thinks he imagined it.

“C’mere.” Eliot pulls him into an unexpected hug. Quentin’s rigidity doesn’t dissolve entirely but he’s relieved enough to rest his head on Eliot’s shoulder, doing his best not to cling too tightly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d been worried that his stupid come on had ruined everything between them— _go and be life partners with someone else for a while—_ and Quentin doesn’t think he could bear it if Eliot no longer wanted to hug or be affectionate with him like this.

“You know it’s not your fault,” Eliot says carefully, pulling back a little. “Don’t you?”

Quentin draws in a shuddering breath. “No? I mean, not really.” He picks at the seam of his jeans. A thread’s coming loose. Unravelling.

“I mean, I kind of do. But also? My actions were pretty instrumental in Benedict’s death.” Quentin explains it all, how Poppy had gotten him drunk and tricked him into holding the key. How his doppelganger had jeered at him relentlessly. That it’d been awful, sure, but not all that different from the entirety of his teens and early twenties. By the time he’s finished, Quentin’s curled into Eliot’s side, head on his chest and all he wants is to preserve this closeness, tuck it away somewhere safe so he can bring it out again when it’s needed. When Eliot’s gone again and Quentin needs to be reminded that his friends actually care about him.

“Sounds like Poppy holds a fair share of the blame here,” Eliot says, running his fingers idly through Quentin’s hair.

It feels amazing but Quentin tries not to enjoy the sensation too obviously, fearing any show of enthusiasm will make Eliot reconsider. “Maybe,” he says slowly, “but my whole obsession with this quest. Come on. I feel like I was trying to do the right thing. I’ve been trying to fix my giant fuck-up. But how many people have to get hurt so I can prove I’m the big hero?”

Eliot snorts lightly, his chin resting on the top of Quentin’s head. “None of us are exactly emerging as the heroes of this story.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. I shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff at all—my old therapist, from the hospital. She said I ruminate and she’s right. I came up here to try and get some sleep but I can’t stop replaying all the terrible shit I’ve ever said or done or even thought about.”

“Sounds exhausting.” Eliot’s tone is glib, but he keeps stroking Quentin’s hair, holding him a little more tightly.

“It, uh. It is.” Quentin tries to laugh it off, but it comes out more like choking back tears. “And yet strangely not conducive to getting any actual rest.”

“Well, we both know my usual method for managing emotions is drinking until I can’t feel them anymore.” Eliot presents his flask with a flourish and they each take a healthy sip.

“Though a nap sounds pretty good right about now,” says Eliot with a yawn. He stretches, shifting to lie with his back against the couch and gestures at Quentin to join him. Even though things are kind of weird between them right now, Quentin’s chest feels a touch lighter at the thought that Eliot clearly still cares enough to come and check on him.

As he fits himself onto the couch, Quentin’s careful to leave some space between them but Eliot wraps an arm around him, tucking Quentin back against his chest, the long line of his body pressed flush. “Okay?” he says, settling a hand on Quentin’s stomach and making his breath hitch. “Mm,” says Quentin, ignoring the restriction in his throat as he swallows. “Lemme just—” He reaches over to the little table by the couch to switch the lamp off and then wriggles back into Eliot’s arms, getting comfortable. “Okay,” he says, and almost immediately, Quentin’s asleep.

*

Eliot hadn’t thought he’d manage it, but he’d drifted off not long after Quentin. Waking up now, he finds Quentin’s shifted in his arms, his head burrowed into Eliot’s chest, their legs tangled.

It’d seemed totally fine before to curl up with Quentin for a nap. Eliot hadn’t even given it a second thought; this kind of affection has always come easily to him with the people he cares about, the kind that usually doesn’t require too much of him.

But the quiet intimacy of waking up pressed together like this prickles under Eliot’s skin. It suddenly doesn’t feel like the kind of nap friends would have together, not even best friends, which he and Quentin surely still are.

Eliot can tell that Quentin really hadn’t been sulking—or at least it’s not just that. He’s spiralling, collapsing in on himself. Eliot recognises the signs by now, the frantic compulsion behind Quentin’s need to complete the quest, his need to matter, to mean something.

Quentin stirs, clinging to Eliot in a way he wouldn’t if he were awake. It makes Eliot’s heart do something complicated. He’d only come up here for a quick check in and now Quentin’s wrapped all around him, hair tickling his chin, hand clamped hot and tight against his back. Now, Eliot barely knows which of his instincts to trust. Except—he does. He knows full well he ought to heed the deeply rooted twist of panic urging him to flee to safety, but unfortunately some soft, stupid part of him can’t help but crave the stifling warmth of Quentin’s body pressed against his. Paralysed by the conflict, he strokes unthinking circles against Quentin’s hip. It does feel really good to at least put the bullshit schemes and quests aside, just for thirty fucking minutes or so. They can’t even have been asleep that long; the shadows are only now beginning to darken the walls.

“Hey,” says Quentin sleepily. Eliot’s hand stills, but he leaves it resting loosely over Quentin’s hip.

“Hey yourself.”

“S’nice.” Quentin yawns into Eliot’s chest. “Uh, it’s nice. Waking up with you, I mean.”

Eliot’s shoulders stiffen, his body straining beneath the weight of Quentin’s clumsy sincerity.

He should have fled while he had the chance.

“I was dreaming about you, too. We were in Fillory.”

Jesus, fuck. Of everyone Eliot knows, it’s only Quentin who comes out with stuff like this. Who actually says shit like “I was dreaming about you” as though they’re star-crossed lovers in some swooning high school drama.

Eliot keeps his tone deliberately light. “Oh, Q,” he says, with genuine fondness. “That big nerdy brain of yours has been stuck too long on fantasy mode.” He taps at Quentin’s temple, teasing. “We literally live in the land of talking antelopes and creepy fairy tales come to life. Maybe try a spaceship next time, switch it up a bit, hm?”

Of course, he can’t just take the out. He doubles down, that’s what Quentin does. He persists, looking up at Eliot, eyes wide and intense. “Don’t you think about it?”

Eliot moves his hand from Quentin’s hip and rubs his chin. He hadn’t really expected this, though maybe he should’ve—Quentin’s never been one to let things lie.

“Think about what?”

Quentin snorts with wounded disbelief, shifting up onto his elbow.

“Seriously? This is how you’re gonna play it?” This time the look Quentin shoots him is pure sulk, his lips tightening in frustration. “Well, fucking fine then.”

It’s easy to forget how difficult Quentin can be when he’s not getting his way. Eliot sighs and stares up at the ceiling, too stubborn to give in. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Quentin laughs unpleasantly. “You do,” he says, moving back as far as he can without falling off the couch.

Eliot is ill-equipped to handle most things in his ridiculous fuck-up of an existence, but perhaps especially this. He knows he’s not cut out for love hearts and gentle kisses. Most of all, he knows he can’t say or do anything to make Quentin understand that it won’t work—that Eliot doesn’t work that way.

“I try not to think about it,” he says quietly, still addressing the ceiling, as if avoiding Quentin’s gaze might protect them both. “You should try too. It’s not healthy to fixate on it.”

Quentin steams ahead as though Eliot hadn’t just laughably asserted that he knows anything at all about what healthy behaviour might entail. “Do you remember our one-year anniversary?”

And Eliot knows what he’s really saying: Do you remember when I kissed you? Do you remember fucking me across the strewn-out tiles under the stars?

“I don’t think we should—”

Eliot remembers (of course he fucking does), but he doesn’t need to unlock the chaos of a whole other lifetime when he’s got plenty of disasters to clean up in this one, thanks all the same.

Quentin’s hand brushes Eliot’s shoulder, hesitant, but heavy with intent. “Just, please,” Quentin says—softly, so softly, and yes, the plea is genuine but Eliot hears the demand stirred up in it, Quentin’s too-obvious need thickening in the air between them. He hears all the things Quentin wants from him. Quentin wants, so fucking much, wants things that frighten him. Things the other Eliot both could and couldn’t give the other Quentin. Things he doesn’t know how to begin to give to this Quentin.

Sitting up sharply and finally directing his gaze at Quentin, Eliot asks, “What exactly do you want here? I’m not him, you know. I can’t be him.”

“Believe me, I know that.”

Okay, well, that stings. Which, it really shouldn’t. But Eliot’s fairly sure he probably deserves it regardless. “So, what then?” An ancient fear churns his stomach. He can’t quite bring himself to refer directly to their conversation, the conversation Eliot hasn’t been thinking about and doesn’t want to talk about, and so, infusing his tone with a hint of boredom he says, “Haven’t we done this already?”

Eliot perfected his hard-edged air of careless indifference years ago and it’s served him well. And yet this time it doesn’t seem to have quite the intended effect.

Maybe because you’re still literally wrapped around him having an intimate little couch cuddle, thinks Eliot in disgust, carefully extracting his legs while Quentin says, “I just have all these fragments and memories and weird feelings, that’s all,” and he’s so earnest it makes Eliot’s chest ache horribly.

“I know, Quentin.” Eliot’s voice is doing that thing he hates, that thing which reminds him of how small and spiteful and scared he once was. He pretends not to notice his peculiar tone, how it makes Quentin’s entire body tense.

“You… really don’t want to talk about this,” says Quentin, hauling himself upright and putting some much-needed space between them, settling at the opposite end of the couch, his knees drawing up into a barrier. “Fine. I’m sorry I brought it up, okay? I just… I think about it. All the time. About us.”

“That wasn’t us,” Eliot says sharply. “It’s not us.”

Eliot would bet his crown that right now Quentin’s imagining it could be them, that they could make it work, goddamnit, the two of them teaming up against all odds. As if the sheer force of Quentin’s wanting would be enough to make them fit together like their Fillory counterparts had been forced to.

“You’re right, I know. I shouldn’t try to push all this on you. I’m sorry, really.” He actually sounds it this time, too. It doesn’t make Eliot feel any better. “I guess it’s taking me a bit longer to sort through all the pieces. File them off, I don’t even know where—to put them.”

Quentin does this awful kind of half-laugh, half-shrug and Eliot feels terrible then, and more than a little torn. But it just can’t work. That’s not something he gets to have—not here, not in this lifetime. It’s not something he even wants and damnit, Eliot’s already shut this down once, he hadn’t figured on the heartbreak of doing it a second time. But it’s devastating to see Quentin’s shoulders slump like that, as though he’s the only one who’s confused, the only one who thinks about their life together.

“You asked me if I think about it,” Eliot says softly, swiping the curls back from his forehead. “Well…” He hesitates. Waking up like this was a fatal error. He’d pretty much managed to lock down the fifty years that’d installed themselves in his brain without his consent but now everything’s starting to spill out in a messy heap, like the piles of black hoodies and crumpled t-shirts clumsily escaping Quentin’s bureau. Waking up to a thousand Fillory mornings of freshly baked bread, fresh fruit, fresh everything. Slow kisses under the covers, and more than a few nights spent under the stars. Scores of tiles always underfoot. Staying up late with Quentin when his brain broke again and again and again. Laughter that turns into bickering that turns into fighting and back again, and the chalk dust that would never quite rinse clean beneath his fingernails.

Eliot’s insides begin to vibrate. This is exactly why he doesn’t fixate. He’s got an entire kingdom to worry about—a goddamn fairy incursion, actual important things and people depending on him—yet entirely without permission, his brain switches track ( _for fuck’s sake don’t go there_ ) and he’s saturated with the worst of the memories he’s buried. Terrible memories of Quentin splayed open beneath him, arms straining against the ties holding him in place as Eliot worked him over, bringing him closer to the edge. His perfect mouth stretched wide, brown eyes gazing up at Eliot like he’d do anything for him. He swallows. “I do.”

Quentin twitches. “You do?”

He looks so uncertain, unsteady but hopeful, and a large part of Eliot wants to snuff that hope out for good.

“Of course.” Eliot nods. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“You know what I think about?” Quentin interrupts. “I think about how _easy_ it was. Don’t—look, I know we argued, god knows you can be a pain in the ass.”

The cheeky grin he flashes at Eliot is so off-brand for this version of Quentin that it makes Eliot smile unwittingly.

“I just—I know I never would’ve lasted all those years. If it had been anyone else. They were good years. Don’t you think?”

Eliot fidgets, shifting his legs beneath him. “They were,” he says finally.

“So—so, you do remember?” Quentin swipes a loose strand of hair behind his ear, his eagerness animating every gesture. “You, you do think about it?” Quentin’s hope is rising visibly, Eliot can see it taking shape in the curve of his mouth, the jut of his jaw, his expression unguarded, every emotion flitting across for all to see.

“Fine, yes, I think about it.”

“What do you think about?” Quentin asks, shuffling to face Eliot properly, eyes bright and keen.

It’s a cop out, but it’s also the truth, so Eliot just shrugs and says, “All of it, I guess.”

Eliot takes another long drink from his flask—he’s going to need it to get through this conversation, he can tell.

“Right,” Quentin says. His expression is heartfelt, laced with the kind of bratty entitlement that he excels at. _I don’t want to push,_ he says while he nudges and digs and pushes and pushes until the obstacle gives and Quentin gets his way.

“I think about them,” Eliot says, addressing the lower half of Quentin’s face, not quite able to look him in the eye. “I think about you, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

“Um, not really? Not if you’re only saying it because you think I want to hear it.”

Motherfucker. Of course. Quentin pushes until he gets his way, but he’s rarely happy once he’s got it.

“I don’t know what you want to hear. I know that I don’t want to think about”—he waves an exasperated hand—“but I can’t fucking help it when you—”

Quentin’s lips purse in a thin line of irritation, and that shouldn’t be what does it. Q had been pissed at him plenty of times over the years, for sure, but what Eliot remembers most vividly is how Quentin had smiled, like, all the time. He’d told stupid jokes and giggled at them until Eliot rolled his eyes, and he’d been so happy in a way Eliot hadn’t even realised he now missed terribly. Eliot had made him—

“Okay.” Quentin bites his lip, buoyancy fast deflating. “I get it, okay?”

He doesn’t, Eliot thinks, there’s no way Quentin gets it, because Eliot himself doesn’t fucking get it. Quentin doesn’t smile like that here. Not really. None of this makes any goddamn sense, especially what he can feel about to spill out next, because Eliot doesn’t say things like this, but here it is.

“I… I think about your mouth,” Eliot confesses, heart dizzy in his chest.

Everything turns in that moment. Quentin’s brow crinkles and when he looks at Eliot it’s no longer with hope, but disbelief. “Yeah?” Quentin says with a delicious half-smile. Eliot wants to push his fingers into that smile, wants to open up Quentin’s pink, wet mouth and—

 _Fuck_. No. That’s too far, too fucking much. 

“Is _that_ what you wanted to hear?” He tries to retreat, desperate to take it back and steer them toward safer topics but Quentin’s smiling for real now, kneeling up and reaching across to brush his knuckles along Eliot’s jawline, fingers slipping through the curls at the nape of his neck and making him shiver.

He looks nervous, yet somehow still more assured than Eliot currently feels, and that’s really a little too alarming for him to deal with at the moment. 

“Fuck,” breathes Eliot, tipping his head back so he doesn’t have to look at Quentin’s feelings anymore.

Quentin seems to take this as permission to press a tiny open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. _Fuck_. Eliot swallows, hard, and suppresses another shiver.

“Q,” he manages. “What—” 

He could stop this, he really could. But Jesus fucking Christ, his whole body comes alive when Quentin kisses his neck, grazing the spot beneath his ear that makes him go weak. Drunk on the heat stirring between them and without really meaning to do it, Eliot pulls Quentin over to straddle his hips. Smooths his hands under Quentin’s shirt, over the downy hair of his belly and the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, dipping just beneath the waistband of Quentin’s jeans. It’s frightening, the ease with which Quentin has unmoored him—he can barely think, not with Quentin astride him like this, shivering, just barely rolling his hips and groaning softly.

“God, what you sound like,” Eliot says, voice bruised in his throat.

Quentin’s body wrapped around his feels so familiar and yet intoxicatingly new. He spent the best part of fifty years touching Quentin like this. He’s never touched Quentin like this. Or. At least not in a way he really remembers all that well. Their ill-timed threesome with Margo is frustratingly blurry, tantalising flashes with shreds torn out of them by an absolute dick-ton of wine and emotion magic.

Eliot thinks he should probably be a lot drunker than he is right now, that it might be the only way to survive this. Why did he come here? Why didn’t he leave when he had the chance? You can’t touch a flame without getting burned but Eliot is already on fire, set ablaze by the desire to touch every part of Quentin he can get his hands on, letting his fingers skim Quentin’s broad shoulders, sliding down to squeeze his perfect little ass and back up to curl tightly in his hair. Eliot remembers, he’s never done it before, but he knows as his hands tangle through Quentin’s hair, tugging his head back, he knows that this’ll drive Q wild, and sure enough Quentin melts into him, goes all soft and dazed just from that alone. He knows exactly how to make Quentin groan and grind up against him and Eliot’s been out of his mind enough times to know what it feels like, to recognize when he’s letting himself do something dangerous.

This part is familiar, the part where he pitches recklessly into the easy hedonism of endless booze, endless parties, endless fucking and any pill he can swallow. Anything to keep the shadows at bay, even if only for a short time. Except—Quentin shouldn’t be part of that. Quentin isn’t like that.

“We don’t have to—you know,” says Quentin breathlessly. His face is flushed so prettily, eyes shining with heat and he’s looking at Eliot like he wants to be taken apart and would it be so wrong, just to have this?

*

Quentin’s nerves are lit up with desire, he wants Eliot so fucking badly. But part of him knows that Eliot doesn’t want this—he didn’t even want to talk about it, never mind—and everything’s a mess, a monstrous loop of ugly thoughts and shitty feelings and the kinds of past experiences that Quentin can’t—Quentin can’t put it into words, but somewhere deep in his mind he knows what it’s like to have sex you don’t really want. He’s never quite admitted it to himself but he knows what it’s like to shut down and just let things unfold. He doesn’t want to do that to Eliot.

“We should stop,” Quentin groans, rocking feverishly against Eliot’s body, teeth scraping behind Eliot’s ear.

*

“Q.” Eliot can’t voice any of it, he doesn’t know how, only that he wants, so very much. Even if it’s all going to come crashing down around him as soon as this is done.

“You remember,” Eliot starts and trails off. He pulls Quentin closer instead, angling his hips up to let him feel how fucking hard Eliot is for him.

The frantic little gasp Quentin lets out is too perfect. He tightens his grip on Quentin’s hair, pulling just enough to sting, just enough so that Quentin moans, tipping his head back to let Eliot mouth at his neck. They’re rocking together now, and Eliot can’t stop himself from wanting, not anymore.

“I think about what you taste like,” Eliot mumbles against Quentin’s clavicle, sucking and nipping at his skin, driving himself mad.

“El…” Quentin pleads, his fingers scrabbling at the buttons of Eliot’s vest even as he’s clearly trying to stop himself. “We shouldn’t,” Quentin says, “you don’t want—”

“Shh,” says Eliot against Quentin’s mouth, pressing their lips together, but not quite kissing him.

“Just this, okay?” Eliot breathes. “We can just have this, just for now.”

“Can we?” Quentin’s shivering, the words shaken out of him. “It feels so good, El, you feel so fucking good.”

Their hands roam freely now, lips brushing, both of them aching. Eliot’s tugging at the buttons on Quentin’s shirt, sliding his hands over bare skin, hot and just starting to get damp with sweat. “Tell me,” he says, scraping his nails over Quentin’s nipples, making him arch and gasp. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Fuck,” Quentin groans. “It—you feel amazing, it’s amazing, you’re amazing—I want…”

Eliot shuts his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the depth and transparency of Quentin’s emotions, how he just bares himself, lets anyone see his soft innards. It’s not anyone, though, is it? It’s just Eliot, just the two of them. He breathes out deeply. The moment of indecision breaks them apart, Quentin looking uncertain again.

“Are you okay?”

No, is what Eliot would say if he were honest. If he knew how to be. But what Quentin’s really asking, Eliot thinks, is do you want this? And fuck, but Eliot does. If he’s only going to have this once, then he’s going to do it right.

“Well, aren’t you gorgeous,” he says, raising his eyebrows and running his palms lightly over Quentin’s waist, drawing him in. “Let’s get these off you, hmm?”

With Eliot’s help, Quentin’s black shirt is easily discarded, the half-smile quirking his lips again as Eliot’s hand trails over the front of Quentin’s jeans. He tugs at the top button, jerking the zip down and Quentin climbs off his lap, standing to step out of them. 

Quentin’s sharp intake of breath as Eliot’s hand slides into the opening of his boxers is a delight.

“Already hard for me?” Eliot grins as a faint blush spreads over Quentin’s neck.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Like you’re not,” he says, with a pointed look down between Eliot’s legs.

Eliot lets his knees fall apart a little wider, and his grin curves suggestively as he hooks his thumbs into Quentin’s boxers, sliding them down and looking up at him beneath hooded eyes. “You know it, baby.”

Quentin snorts, his hands shaking out jerkily. “Hey, um, I better not be the only one getting naked here?” His voice is teasing even as Eliot recognises the quiver of underlying anxiety.

Quick to reassure, Eliot gets to his feet, stripping back his own layers. Now that they’ve started, now that Eliot’s let this happen, he finds he can’t stop. His fucked-up brain won’t stop reminding him of a life he never lived. Reminding him of how Quentin would look up at him hungrily, mouth watering as Eliot pushed inside.

It’s disorienting, dredging up fifty years of things you haven’t done, and Eliot wants something new but he’s caught up in all the things he knows will make Quentin fall apart beneath him. Besides, before Eliot can decide exactly how he wants to play this, before he can think or move or breath, Quentin’s already sinking to his knees.

“Oh, fuck,” Eliot swears roughly. “Fuck, look at you.” This is easy, thinks Eliot. He knows how to do this; he’s done this a thousand times.

Eliot smirks down at him. “You gonna blow me, baby?”

“For starters,” says Quentin with a smirk of his own that’s downright wicked. Fucking Christ, the mouth on that boy. Though for all his bravado, Quentin still looks a little hesitant. Eliot’s heart stings with regret already, how the hell is he going to face Quentin after this? But it’s not as if he’s about to put a stop to this shitshow now, so Eliot palms his cock with one hand and roughs the other through Quentin’s hair. It never ceases to delight Eliot, this game they’ve never played, the soft pliancy he knows he can draw out of Quentin. His fingers trace Quentin’s stubbled jaw, gripping lightly.

“Hey,” he says, voice rougher than he’d like, “open up for me, yeah?” Eliot rubs the head of his cock and wets the tip of his thumb, pressing it against Quentin’s mouth. Quentin’s eyes darken beautifully and he makes a quiet cut-off sound. “Go on,” Eliot says softly, slipping into role as Quentin’s tongue flits out to lick the tip of his thumb, lips sliding around Eliot’s skin. He sucks it into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed as he nips his teeth against the knuckle, pulling off again, his lips pink and wet and, shit, Eliot’s in over his head with this. He needs, he needs to—

“Fucking perfect, Q,” Eliot says, letting his dick drag across Quentin’s mouth. Quentin moans, lips still wet with saliva as he opens to take Eliot inside.

“Wider, fuck, baby, open wider for me, yeah,” Eliot groans as Quentin’s perfect fucking mouth stretches around him. “Fuck—fuck.” It takes everything he’s got not to drive his hips forward, he doesn’t want to make Quentin gag. But Quentin loves that. Loved it. Crap. Eliot’s head’s spinning some messed-up shit right now, he can no longer keep track of which version of him has done what, it’s all starting to feel so real.

Quentin slides off to catch his breath, practically swooning against Eliot’s thighs. It’s not going to take either of them long, but he wants to draw this out. Now that he’s given in, he doesn’t want it to ever end.

“Is this—okay?”

“Fuck, yes,” Quentin says, blush deepening as his hips jerk forward when Eliot tightens the hold on his hair.

He knows already, he knows things he shouldn’t. He says it anyway:

“You like that, huh?”

It makes him feel better, more like himself and less like he’s been ripped from the earth, roots thrashing in the wind.

Quentin nods, clearly embarrassed, and then whines as Eliot slides into his eager mouth, hands trembling over Eliot’s thighs, gripping his hips. Eliot had forgotten, hadn’t let himself remember how much Quentin likes sucking cock. The way his eyes flutter when Eliot rubs the tip lazily over his lower lip, nudging his mouth wider, his tongue slipping over the underside of the shaft. The soft, wet sounds he makes as he sucks Eliot harder, taking him in deep.

“You’re so good,” Eliot groans. “That feels so fucking…” He pushes his hips forward slowly, coaxing him that little bit wider and then pulling out gently, letting him gasp for air.

Another place, another time— _You sure baby?_ Eliot’s stomach tightens. He looks down at Quentin’s face, awed and lovely and absolutely fucking wrecked with lust—“Okay?”

Quentin’s response is to take Eliot into his mouth again, head bobbing and eyes closing in concentration, taking as much as he can, his hand working at the rest. “Well, all right then,” Eliot murmurs, tugging at Quentin’s hair, guiding him onto his cock and holding him there as his eyes water, then dragging him back for another breath. He watches, mesmerised, shocked by how desperately good it feels, floaty and jagged all at once, just the right side of delirium, the sharp intensity of it wildly out of proportion with what’s actually happening. It’s just a blow job. He needs to get a fucking grip.

They haven’t even kissed, Eliot realises with a jolt. Quentin takes him deeper every time he pulls back to gulp in a breath until Eliot is gasping, fucking steadily between Quentin’s swollen lips, that pretty mouth all wet and slippery.

“God, you have no fucking idea, do you? How you look right now, on your knees for me.”

Quentin slides back, sucking slow and dirty, gazing up at Eliot with dark eyes. A craven storm of desire courses through him, and he tugs his cock out of Quentin’s mouth with a groan, dropping to his knees and crushing their lips together, kissing Quentin deep and filthy, until they’re both breathless.

They can’t keep their hands off each other, kissing and kissing—Quentin _moaning_ sinfully into his mouth. Somehow they make it back to the couch, Eliot pushing Quentin down on his back and settling above him. He braces with one arm and reaches down to touch Quentin with the other.

“Ah,” Quentin says, breathing in sharply. “El—”

“Yeah?” Eliot’s hand wraps around both of their cocks, sliding them together tightly. “You like that?” Quentin’s answering groan of pleasure spurs Eliot on, and they thrust messily against each other. Eliot feels like he’s already on the edge, he can hardly look at Quentin, can hardly drag his eyes away, he’s so stupidly gorgeous like this.

“You feel so good. So fucking—”

The need in his voice is palpable. Quentin kisses him, and Eliot can’t bear it. He breaks the kiss, gasping for something more than just air. Grinds their hips filthily, sinking into Quentin’s arms as they wrap tight around his shoulders. Maybe fucking him isn’t such a grand idea, Eliot thinks, maybe that’s taking this—whatever this is—too far. Once again, it’s Quentin who drives them forward. His hands are everywhere, groping Eliot’s ass, tracing along his spine, trailing sparks with every touch and making Eliot shudder. “I—I need—” he stutters into Eliot’s neck between sloppy open-mouthed kisses that are making his blood roil.

“What do you need, baby?” Eliot gives in, again, and kisses Quentin, nipping at his bottom lip, the way he loves. “Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” he says, low and dirty, and then more hesitantly, “will you—El—”

He will, of course he will. How could he have imagined otherwise? Eliot doesn’t have that kind of self-control. He can sign his life away to another world (though thank fuck that didn’t quite pan out), but Eliot doesn’t have the strength of character to do what’s right, not for himself or for Quentin.

Quentin who’s parting his thighs, urgent and needy, shifting his hips up. Eliot’s fingers are already curving into a tut before he remembers. “Shit. Lube?”

With a cut-off groan Quentin laughs and sits up. “Yeah,” he says shakily, “uh, top drawer, I can.”

“I’ve got it,” Eliot says, springing up and across the room, rummaging amongst the clutter of the small bedside cabinet until he finds it. Not exactly top quality stuff, but it’ll do in a pinch. He finds condoms there too. Fuck, but Eliot misses magic.

The room is thick with anticipation as Eliot makes his way back to find Quentin stroking himself while he waits. He watches as Quentin pinks up with faint embarrassment but doesn’t stop, his gaze steady and almost defiant.

“Keep touching yourself,” Eliot says in a low voice as he fits himself between Quentin’s thighs. “Okay?” Eliot watches for Quentin’s reaction as he works a slick finger inside him, soft and slow. Watches Quentin arch his back just slightly as Eliot slips another fingertip into him, thighs trembling and hands scrabbling at the cushions, leaving his cock flushed and swollen, leaking against his belly. Eliot takes over, stroking him roughly, fist tight and hot.

“Look at you,” Eliot says, twisting in deeper and holding still for a moment while Quentin shudders around him, groaning and rocking his hips, fucking himself on Eliot’s hand.

“You ready for me?”

“Ah—El. Just. Don’t tease me. Just—just fuck me, I need—” Quentin hisses when Eliot finds the right spot, head thrown back in a silent cry as Eliot presses into him again and again.

“Is this not me fucking you?” Eliot asks with a grin.

The effect of Quentin’s answering glare is definitely enhanced by the little gasps he can’t seem to help making. Eliot laughs. “Oh, you want more?”

“You fucking know I do,” Quentin grinds out, little brat that he is. “You terrible fucking tease. You always—” Quentin looks uneasy for a second, like he’s been caught out.

Eliot smothers the terror rooting and rising in his stomach, determined to smooth away Quentin’s anxiety, even if only for this moment. “I know, I know. I always make you ask for what you want, and,” he smirks, “you fucking love it.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly, his expression flitting from unease to relief and back to pure lust in a matter of seconds as he fixes his gaze on Eliot. “I do, I love—I love when you fuck me.”

Eliot’s just as relieved and so he doesn’t push it any further this time, setting about giving Quentin what he’s asked for, withdrawing his hand and slicking himself up. He manoeuvres them so that Quentin’s propped up a little against the arm of the couch and kneels between his spread thighs, holding him open and letting the head of his prick rub delicately between Quentin’s cheeks before he nudges slowly into the slick warmth of his body. He’s barely inside when Quentin makes a muffled sort of moaning sound, pushing urgently against Eliot’s forearms.

“Hey, hey,” Eliot murmurs, straining to hold still. Quentin’s clenching madly around him, an utterly delicious sensation that makes him want to sink into Quentin’s body and never leave him again.

“Sorry—sorry,” Quentin gasps. “It’s just you’re so—and I’m—”

“Relax, baby.” Eliot smooths his palms over Quentin’s thighs, tilting him slightly for a better angle. Quentin’s mouth drops open and god, he’s beautiful. Eliot hasn’t ever wanted anyone quite so badly in his whole fucking miserable life and fuck, that terrifies him. He pulls back a little until he’s nearly all the way out and then nudges back inside, fucking Quentin with just the head of his cock until the tension drains out of him and he’s pushing frantically back against Eliot once more. And Eliot can’t resist teasing him again, stuttering his hips slowly in and out, only giving Quentin shallow little thrusts that make him twist and moan. It’s only when Quentin’s shuddering and desperate for it, breath ragged and frustration writ across his face, that Eliot surges forward, pressing all the way to the hilt and choking a deep guttural moan from him.

“I’ve fucking missed you, I wanted you so badly—”

There’s nothing to miss, thinks Eliot with a wild sort of dread, we’ve never—not really. This shouldn’t even be happening. His skin is on fire and shit, is this Quentin’s first—Eliot has to cut off that train of thought, hating himself for it, for what he’s letting himself do.

Quentin short-circuits his mounting self-loathing with a heavy hand at the nape of his neck, drawing Eliot in and kissing him fiercely. His legs wrap around Eliot’s waist, clutching their bodies together tightly and Eliot lets it happen, he clasps the back of Quentin’s head, needing to keep him close. He uses his other hand to brace. Works his hips. Driving into Quentin’s body, relentless.

“More,” Quentin chokes out. And how the fuck can Eliot do anything but give Quentin what he wants? Maybe he’s being an idiot, maybe he could really have this. Besides Margo, who else knows the worst of him? Quentin watched him fall apart after Mike, he can’t have failed to notice that Eliot’s always one drink away from utter ruin—that he nearly got all his friends killed, that he’d rather get screwed up on anything he can snort or swallow than admit to ever having a feeling in his life.

Quentin already knows that Eliot will do anything to claw out of his own brain and escape the world instead of facing it. Even before that backwater shack, Quentin knew him. Quentin knows him and he still wants to, still wants—

Eliot moves faster, Quentin’s heels digging into his back, his body rising up to meet Eliot’s. The couch creaks and groans under their weight and the whole goddamn cottage is going to hear them at this rate but Eliot finds he doesn’t care much. Consequences have always been something he’s worried about later, or preferably not at all.

He’s fucking Quentin brutally now, every slam of his hips bringing their bodies fever-close, making Quentin tremble beneath him. He loves fucking Quentin like this, loves seeing him wrecked and flushed with pleasure. Eliot thinks he could lose himself in Quentin, thinks maybe he already has.

“So good, Q, fucking hell you’re gorgeous, so fucking _pretty_.”

Quentin gasps, a low and aching sound as Eliot strokes him hard and fast in time with his own thrusts.

He needs to make Quentin come first.

All the fear and desperation Eliot’s keeping at bay right now with heat and pleasure and desire is gathering, quivering at the edges of his consciousness, waiting to consume him.

“Wait, wait—shit, I’m—” Eliot redoubles his efforts in a self-sabotaging motion, determined to bring himself to the site of that primal fear.

But Quentin won’t let him go there, not yet. “Sorry, sorry,” he says with a breathless smile. His hand pushes at Eliot’s chest in a clear signal to slow down, hold on, wait a moment. He sounds desperate, wild, broken—“Sorry, I don’t, not yet? I don’t, I just don’t want this to be over?”

It’s such a fucking Quentin thing to say and if Eliot were the sort of person to cry during sex, he’d probably do it now. In lieu of expressing an actual emotion, he holds his breath until the rapid expansion of pressure in his chest abides.

“Me neither,” is what Eliot says in the end, a phrase that’s somehow capable of being both horribly true and thoroughly false. It’s true, he does want to hold onto Quentin for as long as he’s able. But the unmitigated revulsion that’s sprawled at the very centre of who Eliot is for as long as he can remember simply won’t allow it.

Quentin clasps the back of Eliot’s neck, bringing their lips together in a soft kiss, slow and syrupy and Eliot can’t bear it, he can hardly breath. He can’t walk away from this. Maybe he doesn’t have to.

Quentin’s fingers twist in Eliot’s curls, their mouths joining, slick and hot, again and again. “Oh god,” Quentin groans into Eliot’s mouth, “Touch me, El—” Quentin shudders as Eliot’s hips roll, wrapping his arms around him and urging Eliot to move faster, harder. Eliot wraps his hand around Quentin’s cock—so fucking wet and slippery and _gorgeous_ —dragging in a tight up and down motion, feeling insane with the wild little noises he’s pulling out of him. He works his hips desperately, tries not to think about the perfect press of Quentin’s lips against his but it’s so good, so fucking good and Quentin’s head is falling back, body arching, hands gripping intently at Eliot’s shoulders. “ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin cries out, digging his nails in, fingers twisting Eliot’s flesh and god, he’s close too but Quentin gets there first, drawing in a raw, ragged breath, his whole body seizing in desperate pleasure as he spills over into Eliot’s hand.

It doesn’t happen immediately, as Eliot had thought. After he comes with a quiet, helpless shudder, he lets his brow fall heavy against Quentin’s so they’re breathing the same sex-drunk air. He lets Quentin kiss him, lets the yearning falter through him, deep and unyielding. Tucks a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. Neither of them speaks.

Eventually though, Quentin shifts awkwardly beneath him, making a face and so Eliot withdraws as gently as he can, separating them once more. He takes care of the condom and sits back at the other end of the couch, waiting. And here it is, right on cue: the saltwater choke of regret in his throat, lungs burning as the guilt makes its all-consuming descent, dragging him low and heavy to the ocean floor.

“Hey,” Quentin says playfully, sitting up and butting his chin against Eliot’s shoulder. “You all right there?”

Eliot goes rigid with shame.

“El.” Quentin sighs. “Look, this was just about tonight, okay? I know this doesn’t mean—anything.”

It doesn’t mean anything.

“Good, I’m. It’s all good,” says Eliot in an airless tone that suggests nothing will ever be anything approaching good or right again. “Okay then.” He tears away from Quentin’s warmth and fumbles around on the floor near the couch, feeling sick with himself as he yanks his underwear up around his hips, trying not to seem frantic in the search for his clothes.

“Eliot, come on.”

He stands, careful to keep his back to Quentin, fingers shaking as he buttons his shirt. This was monumentally stupid, even for him.

“What, we can have sex, but you won’t look at me after? That’s really shitty.”

“Quentin…” Eliot stifles the shudder of loathing in his chest. “I’m just getting dressed. Of course I can look at you.” He knows he’s being a dick and so turns to face Quentin, stomach seething, expecting a frown or irritation, but Quentin’s radiating such sincere concern and care, the kind Eliot should want to reciprocate, and part of him does. But Eliot’s never been brave. He’s going to need his toughest armour just to get through this, while Quentin sits there, flushed with sweat, come drying on his belly, his natural self-consciousness evidently not yet restored.

All it does is shore up the fathomless part of Eliot that strives only to preserve what little sense of self he can muster. “It’s not that, okay?” He’s trying to be gentle, he really is. “I just have to go.”

“You could stay,” Quentin says softly. “I don’t mean like we’re—or anything, just—”

“I need to get back to Fillory. Margo. Hostage negotiations. You know.” It sounds weak, but Eliot doesn’t give a shit and Quentin doesn’t say anything, just keeps fucking looking at him, quietly devastated, face now tight and unhappy and Eliot feels a stab of irritation—because it’s true, okay, he does need to get back to Fillory. But even as he thinks it, Eliot finds he can’t stand the small, petty drive to make Quentin feel like he’s the one being unreasonable. He has to get out of here before he says something he’ll regret. He’s ruined everything. He has to get out of this room, the cottage, all of it is just too fucking much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's inner monologue is pretty harsh and Eliot's self-loathing is out in full force.
> 
> Some dubious consent is hinted at in Quentin's recollections of his past sexual experiences - this is very brief (beginning 'Quentin's nerves are lit up with desire' and ending '“We should stop,” Quentin groans').
> 
> The 'explicit sexual content' tag very much applies here.
> 
> Major thanks to L for reading an earlier draft of this chapter and offering so much amazing feedback <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@stormscoming](https://stormscoming.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you seriously saying that you marrying Fen is the same as what we—” Quentin can’t finish, voice straining with disbelief, chest twisting raw and open._
> 
> _“I’m not saying you don’t like dick, Q. In fact, I know exactly how much you like it,” Eliot leers._

Eliot lets the daily onslaught of Fillory’s political manoeuvring consume his waking hours so that thoughts of Quentin can’t. He doesn’t care to know how he feels about Quentin, won’t allow himself to consider what they are to each other now, what they were to each other—then. How he could feel, potentially, given time and space, given a world that wasn’t in continual need of saving and in which he wasn’t such a colossal fuck-up of a human being. Besides, there’s way more important shit going on right now than Eliot’s feelings—uh. Than his sex life. There’s a bunch of fairy dicks keeping them on their toes, an increasingly embittered populace, betrayals and backstabbings galore. There’s the fate of the entire magical world at stake. The fate of magic itself. After all, what could be more important than that?

*

It’s late evening when Margo finally catches up with Eliot, and he must’ve been drinking since the afternoon by the state of him. He reels off a line, some gruff cliché about a hard day at the office but Margo doesn’t buy it. Eliot still likes to drown his heart in a glass or several—fuck knows they all do it. But she’s not seen him like this for some time. Not since—well. It’s not quite _that_ bad, surely.

“Eliot, honey,” Margo says, and even though she has a twat-ache of a migraine brewing with Tick fucking Pickwick’s name written all over it and her feet are numb and their shit is seriously fucked sideways, she’s ready to settle in for a bitch and a giggle just like the old days.

What’s worrying though is that the old days are looming nearer than she’d thought, and Margo’s not prepared for the extent to which Eliot has sunk back into his most destructive habits, hair wild and words slurred, a sprawl of long limbs across unkempt sheets. “Bambi, dearest darling, let Daddy pour you a drink,” he says, but for fuck’s sake he can barely even hold his own glass upright.

“Jesus Christ.” She sits next to him and gently takes the glass, having a sip out of solidarity more than any real desire to drink right now—Eliot’s the poster boy for an anti-drinking campaign when he’s like this.

Before she can say anything more, Eliot kisses her. It’s hard and a little frantic, like he’s trying to recapture something that slipped into the cracks between them a long time ago. She kisses him back experimentally because quite honestly, Margo would like to recapture it too. She imagines it for a moment; sliding into his lap and shoving him back against the pillows, his big hands dragging over her thighs, eyes fond and playful as his thumb rubs just right over her clit.

Yeah, Eliot was always exceptionally good at getting her off.

But let’s be real for one fucking second, because that’s not actually it. Sure, she wouldn’t kick an orgasm or two out of bed but what she misses is the way he used to look at her, the languid heat in his eyes when he’d dip and twirl her in his arms. She misses his lazy smirk, the hours they’d spend giggling and preening and ragging on each other. His low husk of laughter in her ear, fingers splaying tenderly over her ribs while they spooned and stroked each other’s hair, marathoning _Gilmore Girls_ hungover as shit.

Yeah, but also? It _is_ about the sex. Because they’ve always been able to make each other feel so damn good in a way that no one else could match. She’s fucked prettier guys and hotter girls, had far more incandescently mind-melting orgasms. But sex with Eliot was different. Because everything with Eliot was different. And now it’s different all over again.

The thing before. The thing that’s missing. It wasn’t unlike being crowned High Queen or sitting in her throne for the first time, the unforeseen satisfaction of being granted access to something special, a door that only her touch could open. Only she got to see what glitters behind the tilt of his smile and only he could seduce that storm-hearted tenderness out of her. And all of this possible only in the precarious space they carved from sharp looks and slow kisses, their legs tangling in the night, arms propping each other up on the dancefloor. See, Margo’s not cuddly as a rule, but Eliot, well. So starved for affection, he practically begs to be touched and he loves it too, or he did, he loved her hands on him. He loved how his ridiculous monster cock looked even bigger with her small hands wrapped around it and he went wild for her nails drawing delicate patterns over his shoulder blades, roughing through his chest hair and over his scalp while he groaned and wriggled like a needy fucking kitten.

God, they’d _wanted_ each other so badly.

Because whether they were fucking or not, Eliot looked at her then like she was precious to him, like she could give him something he needed, something nobody else could. And—it’s stupid really. Just because no one else has ever really looked at Margo that way. Just because she’s not sure if Eliot ever will again.

(Margo’s not actually an idiot. She knows he loves her. And that they’ll work it out. All of it. Somehow.)

They break apart. She grazes her knuckles softly over the stubble of his jaw. Fuck, Eliot’s gorgeous. Really, intensely, achingly beautiful. It’s hard to look at him though, when he’s like this, when he’s not really here. It still feels good in a way, just being close to him. But it’s pretty clear that some things have stayed in the past because that heat, that impalpable frisson she’d felt spark through her the moment they laid eyes on each other? Yeah, that’s not really here either. Eliot doesn’t seem to have noticed, that big strong hand uncharacteristically clumsy as he ruffles through her hair.

It takes a lot to get Eliot this wasted.

Sitting up wearily, Margo takes his hands in hers. The pit in her stomach reminds her of a conversation with Quentin, in another lifetime it seems now. “Do you still think about Chatwin’s Torrent?”

There’s zero point in bringing this up with him right now and maybe that’s why she does it, the only reason she can. Eliot barely responds, anyway. He gives a grimace of sorts, but that might just be needing to puke, who knows?

After a while he says, “You don’t need to worry about me, you know.”

Margo snorts. “Right,” she says with an eye roll. And then, she doesn’t really know why she pushes it. Why the hell not, at this point?

“Q told me, you know.”

There’s a raw flicker across Eliot’s face at the mention of Quentin, which isn’t totally surprising, though she’d kinda assumed Eliot’s little crush had soured way back after that shitshow of a threeway.

“He told me you asked about the torrent. Back then.”

She watches him carefully but there’s nothing she doesn’t already know. Eliot’s pain, his tortured shame and fear and resultant bullshit—Margo is deeply acquainted with that particular clusterfuck.

“Didn’t turn out so well for Pen—Penny,” Eliot hiccups.

Margo laughs shortly. “Yeah, well, that motherfucker was a raging dickhole.”

“Ah, but precious Bambi, I need both of my hands,” says Eliot, waggling his fingertips at her, clearly trying for sultry and only missing by an acre or so.

They’re talking past each other. Margo supposes they have been for a while now. “Thing is, Fillory can’t fix you, honey.” She sighs. “And I don’t know if anything really can.” And well, she doesn’t mean it as harshly as it sounds, but it’s the truth or something like it, and Eliot won’t remember a goddamn thing in the morning anyway.

“Nah, Hoberman’s gonna fix me up—he’s got this one, right, says it’s like getting fucked into oblivion by a bolt of lightning.” His brow furrows. “In like, a good way.”

“Because oblivion is totally something you need more of right now—sure, I get it.” And the thing is, Margo does kind of get it. Even if they’ve never really talked about that shit properly, Margo fucking knows.

She looks at him sadly. See, Eliot’s her motherfucking heart. And he knows her, truly, like nobody else ever has or will, but somehow that doesn’t matter, somehow it’s not enough when all their fault lines have cracked open into a vast chasm and she doesn’t know how to close the gap.

“You gonna finish that?” Margo gestures at the bottle wearily, remembering a time when she’d have downed the lot and followed Eliot into any oblivion of his choosing.

“You really don’t”—Eliot giggles tipsily at something known only to himself, flopping back onto the bed—“you don’t. Have to worry.”

Her left temple throbs and she massages it absently.

“It’s a little late for that.” It comes out colder than intended but Margo can’t say she regrets it. “Cry it out, sleep it off, whatever. Okay? We’ve— _you’ve_ got a goddamn kingdom to run, asshole.”

Yeah, let’s be fucking real. Margo’s the one running shit, even if she doesn’t get the title, recognition, or a lick of respect for it.

“Stay—Margo, don’t, uh.”

And Margo would stay, probably, if she thought it was really her that Eliot wanted. No worries though, her bath might be under hostile occupation, but popping an ambien and rubbing one out before it yanks her under for the night sounds like a fucking dream right about now.

*

With a light knock, Quentin lets himself into the High King’s royal bed chamber, flagrantly ignoring Margo’s warning that Eliot’s “Boned off his face in there. Again.” His heart aches to see that she’s not kidding. Eliot’s slumped over on the floor at the foot of the bed, and from the sprawl of his long limbs it looks like Eliot’s actually slipped off the edge—which would almost be funny, except that his hands are shaking as he somehow manages to pour himself a glass of something viscous and amber.

“Ah, hey,” he says softly, dropping down next to Eliot and leaning back against the side of the bed, legs stretching out. “Sorry, I know it’s getting late, but I hope you don’t mind a visitor?”

Eliot simply offers him the bottle, so with a half-shrug Quentin takes it. The smoke emanating from the bottle gives him second thoughts but he takes a few sips anyway. It’s pleasantly heavy on his tongue, if a little acidic. Then it hits him, fizzing straight to his head. Holy crap. If this is what Eliot’s been drinking all night then it’s no wonder he’s so fucked up.

“Uh, wow, this is some potent shit.”

No response. Quentin sighs, bringing his knees up to try and get more comfortable. “Listen, about the other night—”

“Q,” Eliot says faintly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Nice, El.” Quentin starts to pull himself back up but Eliot’s hand darts out and grabs his shoulder.

“Look, I already told you. Come on. I just.” Eliot waves his other hand with a drunken flourish, falling back against the bedframe. “I can’t do it, okay? I can’t give you what we—they. What they had. Kids, marriage, all that domestic shit. Monogamy. Or much of anything.”

This is a surprise to say the least and not really what Quentin had intended to get into right now, but he tries to roll with it. “I gotta say, I don’t even know where to start. I didn’t ask you to give me any of that.” Not in as many words, at least. “Yeah, we had a kid. And I had a wife.” His stomach tightens. He cracks his neck to one side. “A wife you all but shoved me into bed with, for fuck’s sake. A wife you adored, if I recall correctly.”

“Arielle…” Eliot says mournfully.

“So, what’s your fucking point with this?”

“My fucking point, _Quentin_ , is that I’m a fucking wreck. I’m wrecking it all, this ungrateful dickshit kingdom, you, all of it.” Eliot flashes him a pained smile like he’s making a joke but if that’s the case then Quentin definitely doesn’t get it. The palm of his hand mashes awkwardly against his cheek like he was aiming for his forehead or maybe going to rub his eyes and missed. Jesus, Eliot’s in a state. Wincing, Quentin tries to take the glass from his other hand but Eliot only tightens his grip, amber liquid splashing to the castle floor.

“All right,” Quentin says, raising his hands up in defeat. “Drink more, sure, seems sensible.”

“So glad we’re in agreement, darling,” says Eliot as haughtily as only an extremely drunk person can manage, knocking back the rest of the glass with alarming ease. His eyes fix on Quentin’s, hard and bright as glass. “Seriously, what are you doing here? Go back to your actual life, stop daydreaming about some second-rate affair in a shitty backwater timeline.”

“Okay, wow.” Quentin’s jaw clenches painfully. “Okay. I know that’s not really what you think about—about what we, um. Yeah. So, I’m gonna leave that there, but that’s—that’s actually really fucking hurtful. I know you’re trying to push me away but I don’t really get why. It’s not like I’m asking you for—”

“Oh right, sure. You’re not asking for anything. That’s why”—Eliot hiccups—“that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night to _not_ ask me some heart-to-heart crap about some timey-wimey bullshit that didn’t even really happen to us.”

This gives Quentin a moment of pause since he had in fact come here to do exactly that. Well, not the timey-wimey part, which Eliot is oddly fixated on for someone who wants to forget it ever happened. (Quentin also notes with incidental pleasure that he’s clearly picked up this phrase from Margo, as he cannot imagine any Eliot, in any timeline, ever sitting down to watch Doctor Who of his own volition.)

It’s possible that Eliot may have a small point about the heart-to-heart crap if he’s honest with himself but there’s no way Quentin’s going to admit it now.

“Fuck you, _darling_. Seriously, actually? Fucking don’t—you can’t talk to me like that, okay?” Quentin exhales loudly. “God, you’re a dick. I came here to check that you’re okay because you’re my friend and we—and then you _ran away_ and you know, it wouldn’t actually kill you? To act like you give a shit about some things some of the time. Also, I walked right in here, it’s like, eight thirty.”

Eliot laughs incoherently, drinking directly from the bottle now. “Oh, it could kill me all right. You don’t even know.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Christ, you can be such a drama queen, you know that?”

“It’s called a flair for the dramatic.” Eliot lets out a deep sigh, tipping his head back. “You don’t even know,” he repeats absently. The burnt-orange torchlight quivers, a quiet rage of colour and shadow accentuating the devastating slope of his cheekbones. It’s unfair sometimes, how beautiful Eliot is. Even now, when he’s being a total asshole, Quentin aches just looking at him. Which is just—really? Come on.

Quietly, with his eyes closed, Eliot says, “You—you deserve so much more than this.”

If anything, the unexpected tenderness of the admission pisses Quentin off even more. “You know what? You’re probably right. I know you didn’t want”—Quentin swallows the end of his sentence and starts again—“We shouldn’t have—had sex. That was obviously a mistake.”

He laughs shortly, bitterly. “Both times.”

Eliot doesn’t even stir at this, idly rolling the nearly-empty bottle between his palms, head tipping forward as he stares down at the floor between his knees, swaying lightly.

Quentin wishes he could master the art of shutting the fuck up already. “Look. I’m not asking you for—whatever it is you think I am. I just don’t want things to be weird between us.” His throat tightens as he watches Eliot ignore him.

Fuck this. Seriously. He should just go, Quentin decides. He’d be better off spending the night jerking off and crying into his pillow. As he thinks this, Quentin tries to pretend it’s sarcasm, rather than simply the crushing reality that awaits him back at Brakebills, back in the room where he’d thought something was happening between them. Maybe even the start of something— _No. You wanted it to be something, but you knew. Don’t fucking lie to yourself, you knew he didn’t want to talk about it and you pushed and you pushed like you always do. Jesus, that’s probably why he fucked you, just to get you to shut up. And when that didn’t work…_

“Right.” Quentin’s had enough, he’s nearly on his feet when Eliot’s hand clutches at his, dragging him down so he’s half-draped over Eliot’s chest.

“…the fuck?”

Eliot’s slumped on the floor, shaking beneath him; Quentin can smell the sourness of his sweat, the bitter alcohol on his breath.

“Don’t, okay. Don’t go.”

“Jesus, mixed signals much?”

Quentin, dumbass that he is, softens immediately. Eliot’s voice is smaller and more vulnerable than he’s ever heard it, in this timeline at any rate, and the smoky-sour Fillorian alcohol weighs heavily in his bloodstream, making him numb, stupid, even more of a fucking idiot than usual. Painfully, vividly, he remembers. The sharpness of Eliot’s hips, his wit, his tongue. He remembers—nothing at all. He doesn’t remember anything, because none of that really happened. At least not to them. Eliot’s made that very clear.

He tries to claw back the dizzying anger he’d felt only moments earlier, but Quentin’s helpless when faced with the infuriating reality of Eliot, warm and reassuringly solid beneath him.

“God, Q,” Eliot groans, shifting and slipping an arm around him and Quentin’s disgusted with himself, by how fucking good it feels to be pressed against Eliot like this.

He really needs to get the fuck up and get the fuck out of here right fucking now. But then Eliot’s fingers tangle lightly in his hair, dragging over his scalp and leaving a shiver in the wake of his touch and Quentin doesn’t quite know what to do; it’s pretty confusing as far as the aforementioned mixed signals go, that’s for sure. Suddenly Eliot doesn’t seem all that drunk, though his cheeks are flushed pink as he cups the base of Quentin’s neck, pressing their mouths together.

“Whoa,” Quentin says, head turning, rabbit heart thumping violently. “What are you doing?”

“Q,” Eliot murmurs, kissing messily along his jaw and oh fuck, this time Quentin opens for him, an embarrassingly needy sound escaping his throat as their mouths meet. Quentin kisses him back like it’s his last chance, nipping gently at Eliot’s lower lip and straining to keep his hips still, not wanting to seem as desperate as he feels. An uneasy sensation lurches his stomach. This isn’t right, and Quentin knows it. But Eliot’s the one who fits their bodies flush, tightening his grip on the back of Quentin’s neck, fingers digging into his skin just the way he always—and Quentin’s gone for it, he knows he won’t be able to stop himself, however bad he’s gonna feel afterwards when Eliot rejects him all over again.

Eliot groans into the kiss, his lips soft and teeth sharp.

While Eliot’s kissing him, Quentin thinks about the tragedy that is Emily Greenstreet. He thinks about what it’d been like to fuck her while she’d worn Alice’s face. Alice’s hair, shower-wet and glossy, her pale skin, her everything. She hadn’t smelled like Alice though, because she wasn’t Alice. That’d been the hardest part, having her without having her. When he had Alice—if he ever truly had her during those short weeks—he hadn’t appreciated her enough. Quentin stifles a moan, heat spreading through him as Eliot’s hands trail over his shoulders, dipping lower and lower and—it’s not right, thinking of Alice now while Eliot’s mouth moves urgently against his, rough and fierce and a little desperate. He’s well on his way to being achingly hard already and he just wants to let go of all this turmoil. Surely, he thinks, their bodies can find a way to make sense of this if their words can’t?

They’d done it once, after all. Their bodies a violent groan of desire, their wanting endless. Out of space, out of time, they’d found a way.

_We can just have this._

The other Eliot had wanted him. Or, another him. What _ever_. And Quentin’s not, like, actually stupid. They’ve already fucked, after all. Even if it didn’t exactly—well. This Eliot’s hands are all over him, pushing at his shoulders, grabbing at the collar of his shirt, gripping his jaw. Eliot’s dick is hard, like impossibly, _obscenely_ hard, and he’s grinding his hips filthy-slow, making Quentin lose his breath, his mind, everything. How is he so fucking good at this, even drunk off his ass? It shouldn’t be possible to feel this good, especially while his heart might be literally breaking.

And, so, okay. Surely fucking him hadn’t been some huge hardship. Quentin might not like himself very much, and that sentence might be the biggest understatement in the world ever, but he thinks the sex was probably okay for Eliot too.

_Just this, okay?_

This Eliot’s kissing him and kissing him, his tongue fucking sinfully into Quentin’s mouth and he’d called Quentin _pretty_ and _gorgeous_ and sure, people say any old crap when they’re trying to get off, he _knows_ that, all right. But it hadn’t stopped those sweet nothings from crawling into his heart where they’ve been squirming around ever since. _Pretty, gorgeous, so good, baby_. Yeah, Quentin’s pathetic. He knows. So, Eliot’s not averse to fucking him. Right. Not exactly shocking given Eliot’s track record. But that doesn’t mean— _I think about your mouth_. Quentin shudders. That doesn’t mean— _I think about what you taste like_. Does it?

“Mm,” says Eliot between kisses. “D’you wanna fuck me?”

“Uh,” Quentin says stupidly. “I don’t think—”

“You can fuck me, if you want.” Eliot laughs tipsily. “Just like fucking one of your pretty little girlfriends, hm?” His voice has strung out into an unnerving sort of singsong, pitched too high and thin.

A quiet dread swells in Quentin’s chest. This is… not right.

“Jesus. That’s, uh.” Kinda messed up. “Is that what you think I want?” Quentin’s genuinely curious, though he doesn’t really expect an answer, never mind an honest one. Eliot—the other Eliot? Probably both, since they’re sort of the same person, but what-the-fuck-ever. Semantics. Eliot likes some kinky shit, Quentin is well aware, because it turns out he does too. And he treasures the memories he shouldn’t have of Eliot’s filthy mouth, the utterly indecent things that’d spill from his lips, that hot whisper in Quentin’s ear making them both ache for it. God, he wants Eliot to say those things to him again.

Quentin wants Eliot’s thumb rubbing hot and sweet over the head of his cock— _You’re so hard, baby, so filthy dripping wet and desperate for it. Aren’t you, Q? Desperate for me?_

He was. He is.

Quentin wants Eliot’s sharp, clever tongue fucking deep into his ass— _I’m gonna lick your sweet little hole til you cry, baby. And you aren’t going to come. No matter how much that pretty mouth of yours begs me for it._

God, Quentin wants. But not like this.

Something just isn’t—Quentin’s thoughts loop incessantly, he can’t connect the clench in his stomach to the churning mess of shit that’s basically his entire brain. It just isn’t right.

Eliot’s head drops back against the heavy carpeted floor and Quentin thinks about Poppy. How he’d let her push him back onto the bed and ride him. How he’d gotten hard for it despite his distinct lack of interest in fucking her. How he’d gone along with what Emily wanted too. And others before that. It’s not the same, he doesn’t think it’s the same, but it’s still not right. And yet even though he hates himself for it, Quentin scrapes his teeth across Eliot’s stubble, tasting his sweat and kissing his neck hungrily, grinding against him for a deliriously long time before he manages to pull himself together.

“This isn’t right,” Quentin chokes out. He doesn’t know why he feels so emotional. It’s not like he’s drunk anywhere near as much as Eliot obviously has.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Eliot’s eyes are glittering like smashed glass, barely focusing, and Quentin has to get out of here. He scrambles off the floor and manages to somehow pull Eliot up too, staggering him back onto the bed.

“Come on, you gotta…” Quentin can’t get him to lie down properly. Eliot’s legs are hanging over the edge and his head’s nowhere near the pillows so Quentin grabs one and shoves it under him, making sure to turn Eliot onto his side.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” His vision blurs. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He grabs a blanket and covers Eliot with it as best he can. “You’re like, super drunk. You just need to sleep it off. Okay, I’ll uh, I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

He can’t quite bear to stick around for Eliot’s lack of response. Grimacing, Quentin adjusts his pants, willing his raging boner to quit it. Turning wildly toward the door, he stumbles out of the cloying warmth of the High King’s chambers and bolts through the dim corridors of Whitespire, thinking once again what a massive disappointment Fillory’s turned out to be.

*

When Quentin wakes up, he immediately wishes he hadn’t bothered. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, all told. Countless mornings he’s opened his eyes to the blare of the alarm clock and the recurring disappointment of still being in the world, resigning himself to another day of drudging through the motions. _And another and another and oh look, here’s another._ There’s no chance of getting back to sleep, he thinks wearily as the events of the previous evening flood back in. Quentin groans, rolling onto his side and yanking the covers over his head. He’s going to get up. In a minute. Fuck, he has to get over this stupid mosaic stuff. Eliot isn’t interested, and that’s final.

 _His dick seemed pretty interested last night_ , Quentin’s brain supplies helpfully. A sharp flare of embarrassment behind his ribs reminds him of how he’d pestered Alice, stalking her around campus, trying to wear her down like some asshole out of a shitty rom-com. Still, Quentin feels bad for running out on Eliot like that. What if something happened or he’d gotten sick in the night?

Teeth grinding as his hangover announces itself in the back of his skull, Quentin gets up and resolves to find Eliot. Just to make sure he’s okay. He’d said he would, after all. Even if Eliot’s unlikely to remember it.

He’s fully expecting to find a lightly dishevelled High King lounging around on a plush chaise longue nursing a headache with a hair of the dog hipflask, devastating as ever in his Fillorian fineries, yet still crumpled, his hangover just beginning to sweat through the gauze and gold. Not that Quentin’s put a lot of thought into the matter, and not that he’s surprised, exactly, to see that Eliot’s as calm and poised as ever, exquisitely put together in some kind of silvery-mauve ensemble that Quentin doesn’t have a name for, all he know is that it looks good on him, really fucking good, so good that it makes Quentin ache all over again with wanting him. He’s so strikingly composed, so smooth and assured, he bears almost no relation to the Eliot of the previous night, whose fevered kisses might as well have been from yet another version of him from yet another timeline. Not really his Eliot at all. Quentin’s head throbs, from the awful Fillorian brandy, probably, and the ill-judged bottle of wine he’d tipped down his throat the second he stumbled through the clock, and maybe the quagmire of timelines and emotions have something to do with it too.

His Eliot is right here, barking out careless orders to Tick and Rafe, exchanging playful barbs with Margo and looking the very picture of royalty. Feeling like an intruder, Quentin considers slipping out of the castle again. He’s debating whether he can do so unnoticed when Eliot makes the decision for him.

“Q! You’re here, excellent.” He sounds entirely genuine, without an iota of awkwardness in his tone or expression and not for the first time, Quentin is struck with a surge of envy—how does he _do_ that?

“Um. Hi.” Quentin stumbles over the greeting, waving self-consciously in Margo’s direction. Oddly, it’s Margo who seems off, shooting uncharacteristically worried glances at Eliot when he’s not looking.

“C’mere, let me show you…”

Quentin allows himself to be manoeuvred over to a huge, elaborately drawn map, one of Benedict’s it must be. From before. Before he stepped overboard. Before Quentin got him killed. Fuck. He presses the heel of his hand against his temple and lets Eliot chatter airily about some ancient Lorian strategy they’re trying to combat or maybe it’s a new island they want to conquer? That doesn’t sound right. Quentin’s not really sure. He allows Eliot’s arm to sling around his shoulder like nothing at all happened between them the night before. As Quentin bows to the pretence he can feel himself disappearing, getting smaller and stiller. His responses grow shorter, the correct combination of sounds refusing to take shape in his mouth.

“Q?” Eliot pulls away, his expression is warm but closed and his concern seems distant somehow, like the kind you might show an acquaintance who’s had a bad day, a friend of a friend who lost their wallet or left his keys at the office.

Anything that he might conceivably say gets stuck somewhere between his brain and his throat. “Eliot,” he manages, hoarsely. Because isn’t that what Quentin does? Who he is? He’s the tom-ah-to, the eager volunteer, the one who steps up every time, even if all he gets for the trouble is cut down to size.

“Quentin.” It’s almost imperceptible but Quentin swears he sees it in the twitch of his jaw, perhaps a quick flare of something just barely pleading in Eliot’s eyes. Just act normal, okay? Keep it chill, it’s no biggie. Be cool, Q. Except Quentin is not and has never been anything resembling cool and his very existence is the anathema of chill.

Exhausted, he squirms from Eliot’s grasp and backs up awkwardly, stuttering out some excuse or other that he can’t even recall later on, no matter how many times his brain clicks the scene into repeat. He does remember, quite vividly, Eliot’s distinct look of relief as he’d waved goodbye, how it’d caught Quentin in the stomach as he stumbled back to Earth.

*

Eliot paces the castle gardens, churning with a buzz of energy he can’t seem to burn off by topping up his alcohol levels, though he keeps swigging aimlessly from his flask just in case. One of Hoberman’s blessed hangover cures wiped out the worst of the nausea and grinding headaches, but there’s nothing he can do to shake the boundless fear that he’s done something irrevocably awful. His recollections of the night before are vague and fractured at best, but of course he remembers saying _that_ to Quentin. It’s the last thing he wants to think about, so he rakes it over in painstaking detail. What the absolute shit is wrong with him? _Like a pretty little—_ Christ, that’s fucked up, even for him. Worse though, is how Quentin had gently refused him, extracting himself from Eliot’s boorish, drunken grasp and hightailing it, leaving Eliot to wake up alone in a brandy-fuelled flood of shame—just as he deserves.

What a fucking disaster he is. A disaster with royal duties to attend to, post-fucking-haste. Margo’s waiting for him, no doubt wearing one of those aggrieved looks she thinks he can’t see. Eliot presses his palms to his eyelids, blocking out the glare of the sun for just a moment. He sighs. Takes a healthy mouthful from his flask. Then faces the day ahead.

*

The next time Quentin sees Eliot, he’s already made up his mind.

It feels right. He hadn’t expected them to like it, so it’d gone about as well as he could’ve hoped. Quentin had assumed that was the end of it, but now he’s got Eliot to contend with, his face stiff and drawn, the long lines of his body taut with frustration.

“For fuck’s sake. You’re being… I’m not letting you do this.”

“It’s not your decision,” says Quentin automatically. He’s tired, but he’s ready. Why can’t they see that? This is the whole point of the quest, where it’s been leading him all along. The one big sacrifice that’s going to give his asshole of a life some pitiful shred of meaning.

“I don’t give a shit. You’re not some red shirt we can spare—you’re. The group needs you. We all need you.”

Quentin throws his hands up in frustration, his laughter knotted with anger.

“Right,” he says, pacing erratically. “Right. I’m getting really fucking sick of everyone trying to make my choices for me, you know that?”

“What about Alice? How do you think she feels?”

“You really came up here to ask me about Alice, huh?” Quentin scoffs.

“And Julia? What the hell would she have to say about this?”

“Uh huh, so, you’ve developed some great compassion for other people’s feelings now?” Quentin nods, lip curling. “I call bullshit.”

“You’re being impossible, throwing your life away for no goddamn reason—”

“The reason,” Quentin says, his voice hard, “is that I screwed up magic and it’s up to me to fix it.”

“Are you sure?” Eliot folds his arms, eyebrow raised infuriatingly. “Because it feels a lot like you’re going off to sulk for eternity in a fucked-up prison of your own making.” Before Quentin can even begin to process this frankly insulting assessment of his motives, Eliot’s leaning forward, a curious set of emotions twisting across his face and settling into something like disgust, like he can barely bring himself to say whatever he’s clearly building up to.

“And you’re telling me it’s got zero fucks to do with that goddamn mosaic?”

“Wow. That is—uh, wow.” Quentin’s face grows rigid with incredulity. He laughs, humourless, an ugly sound emanating from his chest as he comes to a standstill. “Sure, I was upset, fine. But you know, you’re not exactly my only option. And not everything is actually about you.”

Though Eliot’s expression remains unchanged, Quentin watches with the grimmest satisfaction as his eyes flare with just a hint of intensity and he sees that his words have landed where he hoped. It feels unreasonably good to strike back at Eliot in the same place he’d hurt Quentin. Never mind that Alice rejected him too. It’s good that she did, he reminds himself. Or he wouldn’t have the strength to do what needs doing.

“Because honestly, getting magic back? Not letting out the monster in that castle? It’s bigger than us. I thought you’d get it. You stayed in Fillory.”

“Mm, yes, it was all very heroic, wasn’t it?” he says with an airy laugh. “I took one for the team, all right, with Fen.” Eliot clears his throat and quickly adds, “Fen who is of course utterlycharming and could slit my throat in a heartbeat for ever suggesting otherwise, but also, you know. Has a pussy. So, there’s that. Anyway, point being that I would’ve married Fen for real and I would’ve stayed with her, sure. For fifty years or more, a lifetime of conjugal hijinks and sexual ennui. But that’s not—”

“Are you seriously saying that you marrying Fen is the same as what we—” Quentin can’t finish, voice straining with disbelief, chest twisting raw and open.

“I’m not saying you don’t like dick, Q. In fact, I know exactly how much you like it,” Eliot leers.

“Jesus, El.” To his irritation, Quentin can feel himself flushing red and even more annoyingly a tiny part of him is horribly attracted to how much of an asshole Eliot’s being right now. Because that’s a totally healthy response.

Voice softening, Eliot seems to realise he’s gone too far. “I’m just saying—” He stops with a rough shake of his head, apparently determined to continue the fight. “Actually, no. It’s not the same as marrying someone from another planet where you could all at least visit. This is about you spending the rest of your life trapped with some big bad evil just because you’ve got a goddamn hero complex.”

Quentin’s jaw sets. “I already arranged everything with Ora. This is what I’m doing. It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Hey, look—”

Quentin flinches as Eliot reaches out to touch his shoulder, jerking his hands up between them as a barrier. 

“Just, fucking don’t.”

“We _care_ about you— _I_ care about you too much to let you—”

“Oh, you care about me, huh?”

Eliot gives him an even look. “Of course I do.”

“Right,” Quentin snorts. “I think I’ve got the memo on exactly how much you care about me.” Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that.

“So it _is_ —”

“Shut the fuck _up_ , would you?” Quentin snaps before Eliot can humiliate him all over again. It might not seem like it lately, but Quentin does have one or two remaining scraps of pride that he’d rather Eliot didn’t stamp all over.

Eliot, fucking Eliot, actually has the nerve to look hurt. “Hm,” he says in an irritatingly calm voice. “I’m sorry if I don’t think it’s unreasonable to _not_ want my best friend to sacrifice his life for some bullshit quest.”

Best friend. Quentin shakes his head, frothing over with barely checked hysteria. He wants to yell or just fucking _shake_ him, but that’s like, it’s not the kind of person Quentin wants to be—there’s no excuse for that sort of violence even if every cell in his body is screaming for the release it’d bring. He considers saying something like _do you usually fuck your best friends?_ But it’s Eliot, who spent the better part of two years at Brakebills doing exactly that. So that’s really not going to produce the results Quentin wants. Fucking hell, Quentin doesn’t even _know_ what he wants or how he feels.

“You know what?” Quentin says tiredly, “I don’t actually think any of this is about me at all.” The pieces of something important are beginning to line up, he can feel it. They want to be slotted together so badly, to be understood, but something’s in the way, blocking him, and Quentin can’t quite see how it all fits together and he just can’t bring himself to care all that much. It’s his room but suddenly he can’t stand to be in it right now. Without looking at him, he stalks out past Eliot, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets to give him the strength to deliver his parting shot, though it’s weaker, admittedly, than he’d like. “You don’t have any say in this. I’ve made up my mind, and it’s nothing to do with you.”

And it isn’t, Quentin decides as he makes his way out into the rush of the evening air. Because for whatever jacked off reasons that were starting to look a lot more like Eliot’s issues than anything to do with Quentin, Eliot doesn’t want to be with him. And he’s right, fixating on it isn’t healthy. Because, see, Quentin’s got more important shit to deal with right now. He went to the depths of the goddamn fucking Underworld to find Julia’s shade, he brought Alice back to life, and Fillory might not have lived up to his hopes (and oh, how high those hopes had been), but he can still save it, and all of magic too.

And in all the gaps between, Quentin’s just so fucking sick of his shitty feelings. When he lets himself, and even though he tries not to, Quentin thinks about the mosaic and he’s so goddamn ready to be over it like Eliot clearly is. And like, the thing is, it’s not as though Quentin’s—well. He doesn’t quite know how he feels, honestly, and he’d hoped to at least be able to talk to Eliot about it. After all, they were friends first before any of this shit—they _are_ friends now. And it’s not as if Quentin doesn’t have plenty of other things on his mind. _Alice doesn’t want you either._ It’s just—it’s just that sometimes? Eliot will say something so warm and affectionate and it jolts Quentin right back there, to the tender eroticism of Eliot’s voice during sex— _You sure, baby?_

God it’s pathetic how many times Quentin’s jerked off thinking about him. He tries not to. He really does. It’s just that—

Delicate hands close around his throat and Quentin’s sunk beyond himself, his body a silent flood, his mind a crashing wave, heavy and stark and weightless as the fall of night. 

He really doesn’t mean to; it makes him, if anything, kind of sick to his stomach that Eliot, fucking Eliot—agonisingly hot, beautiful Eliot, who doesn’t want to be with him but fucked him anyway, that he can make—that he used to make Quentin feel so, it was so—it’s like—

Hot-blooded arousal stinging harsh as Eliot tugs him back by his hair, the slap of his palm across Quentin’s face for the first time— _my perfect, pretty boy, so gorgeous like this, god you want it, don’t you_ —the thrill of that sharp smacked stutter quieting the jangled alarm in his brain that he hadn’t even known had a dimmer switch until now. Fucking Eliot.

Eliot, his animal grin, hard and snappish and hot as fuck.

Sobbing and sobbing, back arching. Eliot unrelenting, fucking him with such tender brutality. That curl slipping loose over his forehead, the one Quentin loves to twine through his fingertips. Dazed and desperate with Eliot’s big strong hand clamped tender-solid-tight over his mouth as he comes— _lovely, you’re so lovely, so good, my darling._ Eliot’s eyes shocked wide and star-bright with wanting as he rolls his hips, pressing deep inside again and again, fucking Quentin like a man consumed, like he could never, ever get enough. _Oh god, oh god, what you do to me, sweetheart, god, I—_

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Yeah, it does seem a little unfair that some of the best sex of his life he hasn’t actually had.

Quentin squeezes his eyes shut. He _hates_ that Eliot would say those things, hates that he wants Eliot to say them again, and he hates most of all how it makes him feel, the swell of shameful desire coursing through him wild and unstoppable.

Eliot’s right. It’s best not to think about it.

Because the things he wants, he can’t have. The people he loves don’t love him back, or not like that, not in this timeline, not in this world, not here and not now. They’d both been trying to let him down easy. He must have known that. He did know that. But stupid, dumb, idiot Quentin had thought—what? That he could present them with a killer paper, pile on the citations and construct a logical set of arguments so airtight that they just _had_ to give him a chance. Yeah, he’d done exactly that. He’d done it with Alice after Brakebills South and after he brought her back and now again the exact same thing with Eliot. Pushing, he’s always pushing. Haranguing people like some kind of creepo stalker instead of simply respecting their feelings.

_I’d know it wasn’t really you._

_That’s definitely not you._

Yeah. That just about confirms what Quentin’s always known which is that something in him, maybe just actually the whole of him, is deeply and irreparably broken and always will be. Whatever meagre things he can offer another person aren’t enough to make them love him.

It all just hurts to think about, seething heavy and raw beneath Quentin’s skin. _Right, so an eternity locked in a castle seems like a super healthy way to deal with your problems._ Quentin ignores this thought quite easily. He’s getting so much better at doing that. It’s a little harder to ignore the caustic insight of the White Lady, her words fused into his consciousness, woven into his bones and snarled up into the very core of him, altering him on some kind of deep cellular level.

_You would find your way back to sadness, no matter how far you run from it._

It’s harder to ignore, but Quentin manages it. There are bigger things at stake than his shitty mental health for once. That, at least, is actually comforting.

*

Eliot doesn’t bother trying to change his mind again. Quentin’s a stubborn little fuck, so there’s really no point. He should probably feel bad for overruling him like this but he doesn’t, because the alternative is something Eliot simply can’t entertain. Letting Quentin spend an eternity alone in a castle with some stupid monster. Alone with himself. It’s not an option Eliot’s willing to live with.

Margo agrees, naturally, so the whole thing is settled.

A straight shot, clean and simple.

No doubt Quentin’s gonna be pissed, but he’ll get over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s nothing much new in terms of content notes. Eliot is mean, they’re both pretty fucked up. 
> 
> If you want to avoid brief mention of mild dubious consent in Quentin’s past sexual experiences stop @ ‘Eliot’s head drops back against the heavy carpeted floor and Quentin thinks about Poppy.’ and start again @ ‘“This isn’t right,” Quentin chokes out.’
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@stormscoming](https://stormscoming.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What’s alarming is his newfound ability to function. See, Quentin’s always envied functional depressives and has for so long profoundly despised his own tendency to crash and burn between hospital stays, never able to keep up with the perfectly ordinary demands of life for more than a year or so at a time. He finds he rather likes this version of himself that feels empty and wrong and burnt to the core, but can still get up and put clothes on, ready to do whatever the day requires of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in season 4 for this chapter, so please be mindful of the content note about sexualised interactions between Quentin and the monster - see the notes at the end of the chapter if you want more details or feel free to email me - cursiverecursive@gmail.com
> 
> There are also canon-typical levels of violence, trauma and pain - it's quite the party!
> 
> Thank you to [TheAuditty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuditty/pseuds/TheAuditty) and [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/pseuds/Rubick) for betaing this chapter <3

Everything’s gone to shit.

There’s a monster stuffed inside Eliot’s skin, hungering deep behind his eyes; petty, impatient, indifferent to the wants and needs of other beings. Every day Quentin looks on, sickened, while Eliot’s hands, his beautiful fucking hands slash through the air and the monster kills yet another hapless bystander. 

He can still feel the ghost of those beautiful hands all over his body, sliding under his shirt, gripping, stroking and holding him tight. It’d be one thing if he could forget. If he didn’t have to _look_ at him all the time. If he didn’t have the memory of Eliot’s hand splayed large and bloody over his chest, the barest gesture that had every cell of Quentin’s body screaming in agony, stomach lurching at the crunch of bone and the newly grotesque angle of his snapped arm. How many times have the hands that ripped open a man’s chest with such brutal finesse tucked Quentin’s hair behind his ear, brushed crumbs from his shirt or lingered fondly while straightening his collar? For decades those hands had been all over him, inside him, taking him apart and putting him back together, rough and reverent in equal measure and now—

Now, Quentin looks on every day as the things he tries to fix just keep getting more and more broken.

Every fucking day Quentin misses him. He misses his Eliot most of all and he hates that his thoughts can’t help but slip to the Eliot who once kissed him so tenderly under Fillory’s twin moons. _You need to get the fuck over it_. The Eliot who sucked Quentin’s cock like he’d die if he didn’t, those hazel eyes dark with ravening need, big hands holding him down until he bruised, thumbs pushing lovingly into the hollow of his hipbones. _He doesn’t—_ Who sometimes looked at Quentin like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to, like each time he did might be the last.

_Yeah well, there wasn’t exactly anyone else around for him to look at, was there?_

He misses all sorts of stupid shit. Like how Eliot’s head would tip to one side with the softest smile while he stirred the various batches of sauces and casseroles he always had on the go, his free hand smoothing over the small of Quentin’s back, always pulling him close. 

How Eliot’s jaw dropped open when Quentin fucked him, the choked little gasps he made when he was close, hands clutching knuckle-tight, fingers twining, bruising, they were always bruising each other in all the best ways and in all the worst ones too and they came as close as two people could get and it was never close enough, not for Quentin who always wanted, he wanted more and Eliot, Eliot would give it to him.

Eliot, who made him feel crazy with how much he wanted him, made him breathless with barely a look, taught him to be shameless and open with his desires. And the more desperate and eager he was the more Eliot had loved it, he fucking loved taking Quentin apart because every piece of Quentin that came undone was a piece he could use to keep himself together. 

God, Quentin had laughed more with Eliot than anyone he’d ever met. And it was Eliot who made their cottage a home, who baked and decorated and chopped wood (shirtless, with all that fucking hair flung wild, smirking at Quentin every time he caught him staring) and sewed curtains— _I can’t give you any of that domestic shit_. But he did, Quentin thinks, feeling almost savage; he gave and he gave and it was all Eliot, he was the one who wanted it all so badly he could barely stomach it.

Eliot who for all his jagged edges was almost endlessly patient with their son; he loved Teddy effortlessly, singing showtunes and terrible noughties pop as lullabies, carrying him papoose-style while he tended to the garden, which just so happened to be one of the softest things Quentin’d ever seen and made him want to drop to his knees right there (he hadn’t though, they weren’t doing that sort of thing, not anymore, not until years later when—).

That summer he taught Teddy to grow herbs in his own little patch of the garden and they’d gone foraging together for wood to build new window boxes. Little Teddy, chin sticky with treacle and bouncing on his heels as he presented Quentin with a misshapen peach pie he’d baked all by himself (or near enough), Eliot wearing a smudged apron and a proud smile, their tiny kitchen a cloudburst of flour and spices.

 _Yeah, don’t romanticize it_ , Quentin reminds himself. Eliot who brushed him off the next morning like he was some cottage party hookup. Eliot who for years gave all of himself, but only when they were having sex and then, like it was nothing, sealed himself off once their clothes were back on. Eliot who stood back as Quentin fell for Arielle, who orchestrated and slotted himself around their love as though he could only bring himself to bolt down the leftovers once everyone else had left the table.

Soft, beautiful, a little dangerous. Sharp and teasing, he didn’t always know when to stop, and he always knew exactly how to twist the knife. The serrated edge of his humour, a weapon he wielded sparingly but with expert precision, and never moreso than when he felt his own armour slip.

They’d had fifty years to get it right. And had they really managed it? Would they have even been any good this time around? _It doesn’t matter because he didn’t want_ —

Exactly. Quentin needs to get a fucking grip because—

 _That’s not me and it’s definitely not_ —

Because _his_ Eliot fucked him and then ran away looking like he might throw up and it makes Quentin feel the same every time he thinks about it.

_Haven’t we done this once already?_

Eliot who drunkenly groped him on the floor of Whitespire then stole through Blackspire with a secret and a god-killing bullet.

Eliot who got them all into this mess.

Yeah, Quentin’s being unfair, he knows, but he doesn’t give a shit. It’s his own head, after all.

Everything is so fucking broken.

“He was trying to save us all,” Margo had said, all hard gloss and soft-edged fury and Quentin hadn’t been sure whether she was more pissed at him for killing Ember and fucking up magic in the first place, or at Eliot for failing to kill the monster.

“He was trying to save _you_ , dipshit. Where do you think he even got the gun from? We made the plan together, it was just him who pulled the trigger. Blame me if it makes you feel better, or blame that library-fucker of a traitor if you need someone to pin this on,” she’d hissed between her teeth.

“I know, all right? I just, I can’t forgive him right now. Not when he’s like this. When he’s not even here.” It’s not even true. Sometimes it feels like he’d forgive Eliot almost anything, had forgiven him for all of it already, unreservedly, to the point where there was hardly anything to forgive in the first place. Sometimes it feels—not like that. It’s just—complicated.

Margo didn’t agree. Her fury had ripped through him, dark and forceful. Hands on her hips, she’d sneered at him, voice dipping low and dragging out the rise and fall of her wrath in an achingly slow cadence.

“You forgave Hedge Bitch when she betrayed us and left us all for dead. We absolved your sorry ass when you fucked with the gods, all right? So don’t give me that crap—if you’re not beyond forgiveness then neither is Eliot. God knows how he’s forgiven me for some of the heinous shit I’ve pulled recently. And I know you’re already making excuses for sad little magic girl for dissolving those goddamn keys we busted our asses to find, not to mention teaming up with those biblio-fascist fucks. Okay? Eliot deserves to be forgiven just as much as any of us assholes.”

And maybe that’s true, or maybe that’s not really how forgiveness works—Quentin doesn’t fucking know, okay? All he’d been able to think throughout her tirade was how much he loves hearing Margo’s voice. He loves Margo, venom and all, though he’d never say it and she’d never want to hear it.

“Eliot’s gone, Margo,” is what he’d said instead.

“You don’t believe that,” she’d said fiercely, holding his gaze with such violence, her eyes damp at the corners.

Neither of them knew what to believe, but they were coping with it in their own ways. Margo checked out and fled to Fillory, leaving Quentin alone with the monster that hijacked their best friend’s body, the monster that likes Quentin a bit too much. Even so, Quentin can’t honestly blame her. He’d do the same if he could. Part of him misses the ignorance of being Brian. Sure, it’d been a lot of torture and murder and trauma, but when you weighed that against the obvious benefits of not being Quentin anymore it was a no-brainer.

Although why they’d had to stick his alter ego with debilitating depression too, Quentin couldn’t fathom. Perhaps a penchant for self-loathing is carved too deeply into his chemical makeup, so deeply entrenched that even the strongest magic couldn’t overwrite it. Maybe that’s why even when he hadn’t remembered being Quentin he’d kept lugging around the same bag of shit and misery he’d always carried and could never quite seem to put down. Maybe the thing he called depression belonged so utterly to the raw meat of his body that it simply didn’t matter who was occupying it.

Even though the monster has slotted into Eliot’s body like an ill-fitting puzzle piece, the edges overlapping in all the wrong places, gaps glaring and obvious, sometimes those edges catch at Quentin like the snap of a strobe light—his lovely mess of hair long and wild like he’d worn it back then. A hint of sweat, that unspeakably attractive and indescribable scent, just chemicals and exertion, just _Eliot_. And, more recently, the sour brandy on his breath when the monster leans in close, so fucking close because horribly, the monster seems to like touching him just as much as Eliot did. Smoothing Eliot’s hands over Quentin’s back, trailing over his shoulders in a perversion of Eliot’s easy affection for him. Because regardless of how fraught things had gotten between them, Eliot’s relaxed attitude to casual intimacy had never faltered; slinging an arm around Quentin’s shoulders, kissing his forehead. It’s this Quentin misses more than anything, and he’d do anything to have it again. He’d stop trying to awkwardly come on to Eliot, he’d never mention the mosaic again. He’d—well.

There are a lot of things he would do.

*

“This body remembers you when it wakes.”

“What?”

“It does. Its mind wakes and other parts of it wake and all of its blood and sinew are thinking of you.” The monster twitches, Eliot’s face screws up in revulsion.

No, no, fuck, god no.

“You uh, you mean—” Quentin chokes out, unwilling to follow the sentence through to its horrifying conclusion.

“It misses you terribly,” is the monster’s explanation. Eyes flashing with cavalier menace, it’s using every inch of Eliot’s height advantage to loom over him and Quentin loves—he used to love it when Eliot did that. Slowly stalking him back up against the door of their little cottage, hips bracketing and holding him and making him feel so small and contained and _safe_.

“You’ll come with me, hm?” Something in the delivery of that last syllable haunts Quentin for the rest of the day, the way it almost but could never quite sound like him. The glint in the monster’s eyes like maybe it was doing it on purpose. “It would want you close, as I do.”

He’s not sure why the monster sometimes bothers to ask for consent like this when it rarely waits for an answer before zapping him away to do its bidding. Mostly it doesn’t ask, simply takes and takes everything it wants. Maybe because Quentin keeps on giving, would give all he has to make sure Eliot’s all right—except he needs to get a fucking grip because _this isn’t Eliot_.

That’s frighteningly clear when the monster looks at him. Not affectionately or playfully or with one of Eliot’s fond smirks. No, these looks are thorough and searching, lingering on Quentin’s throat and scanning with intention down, down, down.

As though the two Eliots had not been enough for Quentin to muddle his brain around, now there was this third not-Eliot in the mix. Because whenever the monster touches Quentin—which is often—his nervous system flails and he doesn’t know whether to flinch or lean in, usually compromising with a sort of awkward spasm that’s almost entirely motionless but sends his heart frantic. This gutless reaction makes Quentin hate himself with deep and recurrent severity, but that’s okay because it comes so naturally to him that it’s actually comforting to wrap himself up in this old familiar blanket of self-hatred. Grass is green, the subway will always run so late it’s early and Quentin Coldwater can’t fucking stand himself. Same fucking old.

What’s alarming is his newfound ability to function. See, Quentin’s always envied functional depressives and has for so long profoundly despised his own tendency to crash and burn between hospital stays, never able to keep up with the perfectly ordinary demands of life for more than a year or so at a time. He finds he rather likes this version of himself that feels empty and wrong and burnt to the core, but can still get up and put clothes on, ready to do whatever the day requires of him.

*

It isn’t Eliot but it feels like Eliot. It doesn’t feel like Eliot but it smells like Eliot. And so on.

His mind knows but his body gets confused sometimes when he looks at him—it. When he looks at it. Which, honestly, Quentin tries not to do. Because do those hands still belong to Eliot if he’s no longer truly in there? _Jesus, fuck, you can’t think like this._ He’s in there. He has to be. And his—its—those hands. They don’t matter right now.

Those hands are touching Quentin more and more and even Julia has noticed.

“Quentin,” Julia says as delicately as she’s able, which isn’t very. “Are you sure you should be alone with him?”

“It’s not like I get a lot of choice in the matter.” Quentin runs his fingers through his hair, thick with grease and he should probably wash it sometime this week but he knows he won’t bother.

“That’s sort of my point.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. “Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about me, he—it’s practically a child.”

“An extremely powerful child with zero boundaries or consideration of anyone else’s and who keeps looking at you like—” Julia draws in a sharp breath and stops, her concern evolving into outright fear.

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. And Quentin gets it, he really does. He’s worried too.

*

Quentin’s slumped over a book of ancient Sumerian, his back throbbing, eyes sore and barely taking in the scramble of words on the page when Eliot comes to check on him. “Mm,” he mumbles into his arm, not quite ready to sit upright just yet, not while Eliot’s long fingers are combing so gently through his hair. Fuck, that feels good. He leans gratefully into the touch, head fuzzing bright with static. Hopefully he’s brought wine because this research mission has fried his brain to fuck and god, all he wants right now is to curl up and let the low rumble of Eliot’s voice wash over him, let those big hands soothe up and down his spine until the world melts away. 

“Hey,” he says, yawning and beginning to stir when Eliot—

Oh. No. Fuck. His lungs seize on the exhale, chest throbbing hot and cold as the monster pats his head; slowly, curiously.

Quentin sits up way too fast, his arm jerking out. “Jesus, fuck. Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that,” he snaps, retrieving the book he’s knocked off the table.

“I’m here.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Quentin says, slamming the book down.

“You would be pleased if it was your precious _Eliot_ ,” it hisses.

Quentin needs to be more goddamn careful. He needs to be especially careful when it gets like this, which happens at least daily, usually when someone makes the mistake of even alluding to the original occupant of the monster’s body.

“Eliot’s my friend, remember?” Everyone likes to see their friends.” Quentin speaks as evenly as he can manage, cautious of riling it any further. “But no one likes to be startled.” The monster is oddly keen to learn about how friendship works, even if it doesn’t exactly take the lessons on board. Quentin hopes this explanation will suffice.

“You’re very—” It purses Eliot’s lips strangely, searching for the language to express itself and evidently coming up short as it settles on, “You smell very. There’s something. You are. Satisfying.”

“Oh,” Quentin says.

The monster cups Quentin’s face with both hands, pressing Eliot’s thumbs into his cheeks and pulling experimentally at the corners of his mouth. “You should smile more,” it decides.

He endures this for a paralysing moment before he gently grasps Eliot’s—it’s fingers and scoots as far back in his chair as he can.

“That’s not—you can’t just tell people to do that. It doesn’t work that way.” He breathes out more shakily than he’d like.

“Why not?” The monster sulks, its temperament easily swung. “You did it for _him_ all the time.”

“That’s not—” Quentin sighs. “It’s not the same. You can’t just force people to do whatever you want them to.”

“Can’t I?”

The monster towers over him and slides Eliot’s hand over the back of Quentin’s neck, tangles in the hair at his nape and pulls, hard. Quentin’s body responds helplessly, surging into the sensation.

“Your face has become very red,” Eliot says. “You did this for him too.” An eager delight stretches its features in blunt contrast to Eliot’s own expression of the same emotion.

“I, uh—we—”

The monster’s smile spreads wide and open.

*

It’s after this encounter that the monster makes a special effort to catch Quentin unawares, experimenting with its newfound power, splaying Eliot’s fingers over his neck or swiping a palm across Quentin’s back unexpectedly, delighting in even the smallest reaction.

This time, Quentin’s in the kitchen. He can’t sleep and his back still aches like a motherfucker and he winces as he bends to find the bowl he likes his cereal in and before he can straighten up the monster is behind him, wedging him against the kitchen counter, its hands loose on Quentin’s hips.

“Ah,” says Quentin awkwardly. “What’re you—I need to, uh.”

The monster doesn’t tighten its grip or make any threatening moves. It knows its presence is enough.

“Why do I want to touch you like this?”

Oh, fuck. “I don’t know,” Quentin lies, slowly inching upright, staring at the bananas in the fruit bowl, almost black, their skins starting to split. Standing firm at Quentin’s back, the monster slides Eliot’s hands to the countertop to prevent him from moving. “Sometimes out, uh—humans. Human bodies. They want things.”

“Things like liq-uids. And Fo-od.” It pronounces these words haltingly, like there are too many syllables crowding its mouth.

“Y-yes. Uh. Could I um, maybe just—”

“And this, this is that sort of want?”

“Ah, well…” Quentin sucks in a nervous breath. “Sort of.”

The monster slides Eliot’s hands slowly along Quentin’s waist and around to his shoulders as it speaks low in his ear. His skin feels hot all over and he almost flinches but Quentin’s getting really good at staying still. Only his hands betray him, clenching into shuddering fists by his sides.

“Your wret-ched sacks of meat, they do not survive without regular nourishment,” it says slyly, and Quentin realises his mistake.

“Oh, uh. It’s not quite the same? But—”

Slinging an arm around Quentin’s neck, the monster pulls him back so their bodies are flush and he feels Eliot’s—the monster, it’s. Hard.

“He would touch you like this.” Eliot's lips brush Quentin’s ear and horribly his body begins to respond. “You played all sorts of games together.”

Quentin does flinch now, shoulder muscles jerking. “That’s none of your fucking business. And it wasn’t a game. It’s—complicated.”

“You wanted things from him.”

 _Some shitty backwater timeline_.

He didn’t mean it—he didn’t. Quentin knows he didn’t. He couldn’t.

_I think about you, okay?_

Eliot’s arm tightens at his throat and Quentin’s hips twitch, almost imperceptibly, but he knows the monster has catalogued his reaction.

“Uh,” he says, as his brain begins to slowly power down, blood rushing to his ears.

“Um, hey guys.” Julia. Fuck. How long has—Quentin tries to sidle out from the monster’s grasp, praying Julia will mistake the terrifying sexual tension for terrifying violent tension instead. All he manages is to turn in Eliot’s arms, which loosens the headlock somewhat but results in a rather more intimate embrace. The monster must be able to feel—oh god. Quentin tries to coax even just a sliver of space between them, but the counter remains stubbornly solid at his back. Every nerve is lit up on high alert, sirens blaring somewhere just beyond reach, his senses wild and feverish, sick with the rightness of Eliot’s body and the wrongness of the monster’s touch.

Quentin avoids Eliot’s eyes, looking over at Julia instead. He wonders what his expression is doing because when Quentin meets her eyes, her face slips with fear.

“So, what’s up?” Julia asks, mustering an impressive amount of false cheer.

_That goddamn mosaic._

“We’re just.” Quentin swallows, unable to think of what to say. _He ambushed me and all I wanted was a snack and now I’m trapped, and oh, getting a truly unfortunate erection, worse even that the time in tenth grade when Suzie Drummond was dared to give me a lap dance and she was looking at me like she hated me the whole time which was actually kinda hot but then—_

Quentin turns automatically to look up at Eliot and wishes he hadn’t. The monster’s smile verges into mania and Quentin says, at last, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the monster repeats with a mechanical head tilt.

“Oh, right.” A frantic pause elapses before Julia says, her voice pitched far higher than usual, “I really need to speak to you, Quentin, if that’s okay?”

“No,” the monster growls and oh god, pushes his hips forward, letting out a tiny, confused gasp and Quentin can’t fucking breathe. “I need him.”

“I’ll, uh.” Julia’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Bring him back?”

“No,” it hisses. “No secrets. You’re wanting to have secret games without me.” It smooths Eliot’s hands over Quentin’s chest. The gesture, once so reassuring from Eliot, makes Quentin wish his body would shatter into pieces.

“It’s okay.” Quentin’s breath is coming in shudders, whatever words he’s meant to be saying are lost until they all rush out at once, tripping over each other in their haste. “No secrets, just, it’s just sometimes people need to talk alone for a minute, okay? It’s just, a stupid human thing. It’s just—why don’t you go—go sit down and I’ll, I’ll.” The words stumble again and for no reason that he can fathom, it relents.

“I will wait for you in the room where you lie awake at night and you will come and play with me immediately upon finishing your pitiful human secrets.”

Julia’s face is pinched with terror as she drags Quentin out of the penthouse and into the hallway.

“Holy shit. What the hell was that?”

Chest heaving, Quentin collapses against the wall and slides to the floor, making an effort to draw in several deep breaths before he can respond.

“I don’t know. He just came up behind me and started—it’s fine, honestly.”

“What did he do?” The urgency in Julia’s expression makes Quentin sick to his stomach.

“It’s really nothing.” He tightens his grip on his sleeves, thumbs pressing into the thin fabric.

“Quentin, look, I don’t want to push. But this is not okay.”

To Quentin’s horror, his eyes fill up when he looks at her. He’s meant to be handling his shit. She’s his best friend in the whole world and he has no idea what to say to her, but Julia sits next to him like she’s done so many times before, guiding his head to her shoulder.

“You can’t go back in there with him.”

“I should, he’s, he’s unpredictable.”

“Uh yeah, that’s exactly why you can’t—”

“And if we go?” Quentin asks, throat sore. “And it zaps right back to find us and this time he’ll be pissed. Or, or, it takes it out on someone else—” He sits up sharply and looks at Julia, needing her to understand something he’s not even sure he fully understands himself.

Julia’s eyes crinkle with her own special blend of concern and pity, a look Quentin is intimately familiar with. “Not your responsibility, Q.”

“It kind of is though.”

“You know you can’t, like, domesticate it. Don’t you?”

_I can’t do it okay? I can’t give you what they had._

“That’s not—I’m trying to reduce the overall level of murder and torture while secretly working towards killing it and getting Eliot back!” Quentin hisses, fury crushing his lungs. “I’m hardly about to shack up with it just because it’s wearing his face.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that at all.” Julia gives him an odd, searching look. “Am I missing something here?”

The fluorescent hallway light is crazy bright. It hurts to look at, searing through Quentin’s eyes and burning directly into his brain, but he doesn’t close his eyes. “I have to go back inside.” He doesn’t though. He shouldn’t.

“Look, just wait here, okay?”

He slumps back against the wall while Julia goes back inside to fix yet another of his messes. They’re really starting to stack up high now.

_When are you gonna stop fucking up everything you touch?_

_Shut up shut up shut up,_ Quentin thinks viciously, until Julia returns, surprisingly quickly and with relief straining at her shoulders.

“What? What did you—?”

“I told it I need you for something important,” she says. “Which is true. It’s very important that I get you away from psycho killer in there.”

“But—”

“And I left it playing Candy Crush.”

“That’s… Okay, you’re an actual genius.”

“Duh,” Julia says, half-laughing. “Come on.”

*

Quentin puts up a token protest but lets Julia insist on a sleepover.

“Just like when we were kids,” she says, ignoring all the times they’d crawled into each other’s beds in college, all the times she’d insisted on staying with him when he could barely move or speak and all the times she’d hauled him out of bed and into class. He wouldn’t have made it through without her.

Julia slips into the bed, dropping a kiss on his forehead. She’s always been far too kind to Quentin, too giving, even if she never gave him what he’d really wanted. Lying here next to her, Quentin searches his body for that spark, the ache and intensity he’d carried everywhere, that flared and shone pathetically out of him whenever he’d so much as looked at Julia, and the trace of it is there—when she smiles and her eyes light up, playful as she teases him about hogging the duvet—because Quentin loves Julia and always will, and in his darkest moments he can’t fathom why she still wants him around, why she ever did, but right now he’s just so fucking grateful that she does. Julia doesn’t get it, always, when his brain breaks. Not really. But she gets Quentin, and that’s ultimately so much more important.

Julia switches out the light, hugging him gently and whispering goodnight, and Quentin’s chest burns at his own neediness. He’s always needed more than Julia could offer. Getting into Brakebills had been so incredible because not only was magic real, but he could finally shed the pitiful version of himself who skulked outside of classrooms and around the outskirts of parties waiting for Julia to finally love him back.

That’s why it’d felt even better knowing that not only had Quentin been offered a one-way ticket to leave the real world behind, but that Julia hadn’t. That he finally had something she wanted, even if that thing wasn’t him.

_Got your best friend sexually assaulted._

He doesn’t deserve Julia’s kindness, not at all, but he needs her as much as he ever did.

_As if someone like Julia could ever love someone like you. As if anyone—_

Throat tight, Quentin waits for the tears to come. But they don’t.

And Eliot, well. Quentin knows Eliot loved him once, even if it’s getting harder to hold onto his memories of their life together. What’s most humiliating is that they’d already been together for fifty years, and while of course that was plenty for Eliot, it wasn’t enough for Quentin. He’d wanted more. Because he always wants more. Gasping, earnest, greedy; he’s always pushing for more than other people want to give.

*

“Gimme some of that.”

The balcony door slides shut. Quentin takes another drag and passes Margo his newly lit cigarette. He watches the smoke escape between her darkly painted lips. Without looking at him, she says, “I’m not going to hug you, Coldwater because I am barely hanging onto my shit as it is, but he loved you, okay?”

“Right. Why’re you telling me this?”

“Because you need to hear it.”

He really, really doesn’t.

“Yeah, well he had a pretty crappy way of showing it sometimes.”

“Oh honey, I know,” Margo says, in a rare moment of softness, nudging Quentin’s shoulder as she hands the cigarette back. “But you gotta cut the self-pitying crap and keep your shit together.”

“Uh, fuck you. I’ll take a bath in self-pity if I want to—and it’s not like you’re doing anything to help.”

“Someone needs to keep Fillory from imploding, dickwad. I’m the High fucking King, what do you want from me?”

Quentin’s only answer is his exhale, long and smooth, enveloping them both in a haze of smoke. Seems like pretty much the only time he can draw in enough breath these days is when a bunch of toxic chemicals come along for the ride. Sounds about right. He pulls deeply on the cigarette, holding the smoke in the back of his throat until a lightly unpleasant dizziness sets in. His jaw almost relaxes when he finally lets it go.

“You two were so fucking weird,” Quentin says. “Like, you had the weirdest relationship I’d ever seen. I was kinda envious sometimes of how close you were, back at Brakebills.”

“It wasn’t all orgies and champagne cocktails, you know.” Margo snorts. “He could be a real asshole sometimes.”

Proceeding with caution, Quentin says, “Especially to you. Back then, I mean. You weren’t talking for a while.”

“We were assholes to each other,” Margo corrects. “I was awful to him. After Mike died—after Eliot _killed_ him, Jesus.” She shakes her head. “Eliot killed his boyfriend and I was too busy woe-is-me-ing that I wasn’t the centre of his world anymore. I was too caught up in my own bullshit to notice how badly he was falling apart.”

“We’re talking about him like he’s dead.”

“No.” Margo turns one of her sharpest glares on him. “We’re talking about Eliot because we’re his closest friends and we love him.”

That pretty much answers the question of whether Eliot had thought their fifty-year relationship was something worth mentioning.

“We all let him down,” says Quentin, remembering his own tunnel vision, the all-consuming pulse in his brain telling him nothing was more important than stopping the Beast. Not even his friends. “And you did, you tried, you care about him more than anyone.” Throat burning. “You were so worried about him and he didn’t give a shit about himself. None of us were exactly equipped to deal with that level of emotional labour.”

Margo laughs sadly. “Not much has changed there, kiddo.” She nudges his shoulder again. “Come on, Josh’s tamales are to die for and you look like you might snap if you don’t eat something.”

“Sure. In a minute.”

Quentin lights another cigarette. He stays out on the balcony for a long time.

*

He wakes in the night with Eliot astride him. Except Eliot’s dead. The monster had said so. _Eliot’s dead Eliot’s dead Eliot’s dead_. Wait, why is he wearing that stupid white t-shirt, it’s all baggy and misshapen and Eliot would never—oh.

Oh. “What’re you doing?” Quentin sits up on his elbows, swallows around the bad taste in his mouth. “It’s the middle of the night.”

It’s the middle of the night and Quentin’s earlier conviction that the monster must surely be lying is so much harder to hold onto right now.

“I wanted to see you.”

“Uh.” Quentin tries to sit up, hoping to subtly dislodge the monster but to no avail. “Could we, uh. Maybe we can talk in the morning.”

Squeezing Eliot’s knees into Quentin’s sides, the monster pitches its crudely patchworked understanding of the world out into the darkness between them.

“I don’t want to talk,” it growls. “I want to know things. I want to know things about you. I’ve seen things on the television. Your revolting human bodies, when you mash them together and. I want to know.”

Quentin’s stomach lurches. What the fuck kind of TV has it been watching?

“Right. Could you, um, move? And let me up? Maybe I can explain.”

The monster looms over Quentin, eyes menacing, the dark tangle of Eliot’s hair falling over its face, and it might be easier if there was a definitive boundary he could carve, a visible line between what’s Eliot and not-Eliot. It might be easier if Quentin’s sexual history wasn’t so ambivalent. Not that he’s had a lot of experience, with women or men, but what he does have is a deep-seated tendency toward passive acceptance of any and all forms of intimacy offered to him. The blueprints had been drawn up long ago and retraced so many times by now that it’d be more straightforward to give the monster what it wants simply for the mere fact of its wanting.

Quentin’s always found it easier to say nothing than to say no. Under ordinary circumstances the monster would not have to force Quentin, because Quentin did not need to be forced. It’s frighteningly possible to imagine the monster’s childish cadence in his ear, the primacy of its petty, insular desires annexing Quentin’s own before he could even conceive of them.

“You did this with him.” Eliot’s—the monster’s face is covered in a light sheen of sweat, making it appear more unhinged than usual. “Why won’t you do it with me?”

He can feel it starting, the stilling of his blood, the soundless paralysis that compels him to simply wait until it's over, it’s not like he won’t enjoy it and if he doesn’t that’s just because he’s too depressed, too numb to really feel anything at all. _That’s not what’s happening here_ , his brain is screaming, but the rest of his body can’t tell the difference. “I told you, it doesn’t work that way.”

“It could,” the monster says. “I could be”—it licks Eliot’s lips and Quentin feels nauseous—“like him. If that’s what you want.”

What he wants. Right.

Quentin’s wants are the split ends of a thread come loose. Because when it comes to this sort of thing, Quentin can’t help but want, quite badly, to do whatever it is other people ask of him. He just wants to do a good job. Which, yeah, he knows how pathetic that is. But since the long-held shame of it doesn’t really surface in any other areas of his life, Quentin tries not to look at it, has always managed to bury this reflexive compliance that he knows deep down is hooked keen and jagged at the root of him.

In the end, what galvanises Quentin is the fact that it’s Eliot’s body at stake, not his own. It’s this that compels Quentin to assert himself. “I can’t,” he says as steadily as he can manage. “I’m sorry, okay?” The urge to placate is overwhelming, and not just because the monster could maim or murder him with barely a thought. “I—it’s not that I don’t. I don’t—I’m sorry.” And perversely, he is. Because other people’s wants are so often more legible than Quentin’s own, it can seem like the right thing to do is simply go along with them. But it’s so obvious, even to Quentin, that this isn’t the right thing to do at all.

“It’s not that I don’t, I don’t,” the monster repeats. It jerks Eliot’s head, unruly curls escaping from behind its ears. “So you, you, do.” Another jerky nod. “No,” it mutters, seemingly to itself.

“Why do I want it if you do not?”

“Sometimes we want things we shouldn’t have,” says Quentin, a quiet awareness growing in him.

“Like too much of the white powder and eating all those little blue pills?”

“Jesus Christ. You can’t—never mind.” That’s an argument for another time. “Yeah, a bit like that. It didn’t feel good, after you took too many pills?”

“No,” it says with a sullen frown as it struggles for words. “No, it’s not _fair_ —”

The monster’s violent confusion brings a fragility to Eliot’s features that Quentin’s never seen before. It’s not an expression he can imagine Eliot ever wearing. It makes him look very young, so young that Quentin can begin to see the frightened boy Eliot once was, the boy he tried so desperately to obliterate in the process of remaking himself. Quentin can tell it’s something Eliot would never have wanted him to look at. He feels guilty, then remembers that Eliot’s probably dead and this is all Quentin has left of him. The fact that the monster is somehow capable of showing him this, however unwittingly, activates some small spark of grace that Quentin hadn’t known he possessed.

“I know,” he says frankly. Because he does. “It’s really fucking not. It’s actually pretty crappy how the things we want, they just, they don’t always make us feel good.” For some reason this banal admission alerts Quentin to the fact that he’s sweating into the sheets and that his legs are dull and heavy and on the verge of numbness.

“So you don’t. You don’t want to. Play with me.”

“Not like this.”

“But _why_?” Its body is lashed tight with the kind of frustration that no answers could ever unravel. “Why won’t you want it?”

As much on impulse as to avoid the question, Quentin does the only thing he can think and reaches to gently circle Eliot’s wrists, guiding him down to lay against his chest and smoothing over his matted curls. The monster relents, body flattening against Quentin’s like a sigh of relief. It feels so fucking good. Eliot’s fist crumples into Quentin’s shirt, their legs wrapping around each other and it’s good, so good he could cry. Eliot’s hair needs washing. That’ll be one of the first things he’ll sort when he’s back, Quentin thinks drowsily. God, Eliot’s gonna be horrified when he wakes up. He’ll bitch and moan and use those fancy products, he’ll get a good cut, maybe that one with the sides shorter and all long and curly on top. _Eliot’s dead_. Quentin remembers the last time Eliot curled up with him like this, and all the times he never had before that. _Eliot’s dead_. He imagines Eliot’s long fingers quick and deft, buttoning one of his vests—a black one maybe, with some kind of nice silky shirt underneath. And he’ll— _Eliot’s dead_. Quentin squeezes his eyes shut. He’ll smile one of those warm just-for-Quentin smiles.

Shuffling them onto their sides so he can wrap his arms around Eliot once last time, Quentin’s sick with himself as he admits it. “This is what I want, okay?” He drags the covers out from under Eliot and then up and over them both, his heart splintered and spent.

“You want it from him,” it says dourly. “But this will do.”

Quentin finally grasps the true tragedy of Emily Greenstreet as he crushes Eliot to his chest and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes here about sexualised interactions between the monster and Quentin that start to escalate. There's a degree to which the levels of naïveté vs manipulation are deliberately unclear here. The worst bit isn't very graphic (the monster has Quentin trapped in the kitchen and he can feel its erection, the situation is confusing and Quentin's own body starts to react too), but if you want to avoid this, stop @ 'It’s after this encounter that the monster makes a special effort to catch Quentin unawares' and start again @'Julia’s face is pinched with terror as she drags Quentin out of the penthouse and into the hallway.'
> 
> Also note that this chapter uses 'it' as a pronoun to refer to the monster. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@stormscoming](https://stormscoming.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because what if Eliot_ did _mean the thing Quentin can’t bear to name, the thing that’s annexed his every cell, every wretched fibre of him? If it takes being possessed by a deranged god-monster for Eliot to decide maybe he does give a shit about Quentin after all?_
> 
> _What the actual fuck is he supposed to do with that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of part one and the end of season four. Which means this is the chapter where Quentin dies, so if you'd like to avoid that, it's a very brief section at the end and you can just stop reading @'He doesn’t know how to reconcile any of it.' 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick) and [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi) for betaing and encouragement and to everyone who's left comments and kudos, I appreciate them all SO much.
> 
> I'm excited for part two, in which we make a break from canon.

_I’m alive in here._

He’d hoped, obviously. For one, it was impossible to even think about mourning Eliot while his body was still walking around murdering people. At the same time, he hadn’t quite dared to believe that Eliot might really be alive. Because what if—

But he is.

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker._

Quentin’s hand ghosts over his shoulder in an absent echo of Eliot’s clumsy shove in the park that day. The ever-present knot in his chest tightens.

Because what the _fuck_ , Eliot?

Despite the mountains of evidence to the contrary, Quentin had almost sort of thought he was doing an okay job of getting over Eliot. Maybe not quite there yet, but surely on his way towards the general vicinity of moving on. Turns out all he’s really been doing is shunting his feelings down in his eagerness to smash headlong into the next unfixable mess.

Now, Quentin’s a stripped wire cut loose from the grid and all those fucking feelings crackle through him with nowhere to go.

He tries, god Quentin tries not to think about it, but the question of what, precisely, Eliot had meant by those words plagues him endlessly. It also lends him the strength to endure the monster’s intensifying obsession with him, though the whole thing is no less confusing, painful, terrifying. But Quentin’s purpose is sharpened, sustained less by Eliot’s _words_ per se and more by the very fact that he’d _said them_. He’s got no clue how, but Quentin vows nonetheless: they’re gonna fuck the monster’s shit up and he’s gonna get Eliot back.

Peaches and motherfucking plums. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.

And, okay. Right. Eliot _would_ zero in on him like that, he’d want to get his message across to someone who’d know it was really him. Fuck, even Quentin hadn’t—a sickening surge of adrenaline grips him as he thinks about what might’ve happened if, if he hadn’t. He forces himself to follow it through. If he hadn’t realised, hadn’t listened, hadn’t believed. If he’d listened to Alice instead, if he’d acted without hesitation as he’s so often berated himself for being unable to do. If he’d gotten his—his best friend killed.

But he hadn’t. It’s okay—no, not that. There’s nothing okay about any of this. But it was enough. And that explains peaches and plums, right? He’d said it to make sure Quentin knew. To make sure Quentin didn’t fuck it up. _You didn’t you didn’t you didn’t Eliot’s alive you didn’t._

If only Quentin were the sort of person capable of self-protectively snuffing out all hope. But of course, Quentin is not that sort of person at all. His hopes, his stupid, pathetic hopes can no longer be squashed down into a tolerable shape or size. He can’t help it, can’t help but wonder. What if Eliot meant—

_Who gets proof of concept like that?_

Really, though. What the _actual_ _fuck_ is Eliot playing at?

This is where it gets tricky, the bit that’s got Quentin’s brain running jagged. Because he’s beaten himself up plenty for letting those words slip out at all. Because who the hell says moronic shit like that? And really, Eliot had been pretty decent about it, letting him down easy. _I love you, but—_

(Or had Eliot in fact been a total dick about it?)

But, right. Why say it at all, when peaches and plums would have sufficed? The weight of possible interpretations sits, not unpleasurably, beneath Quentin’s sternum. There are two options, he decides. One is that Eliot had, with limited time at his disposal, chosen to say something, anything to get Quentin’s attention. And two is where he stalls out. His nerves alight with every sliver of possibility, but he can’t let the thought take shape, not even in the boundaries of his own brain.

Especially not there, Jesus fuck. Because what if Eliot _did_ mean the thing Quentin can’t bear to name, the thing that’s annexed his every cell, every wretched fibre of him? If it takes being possessed by a deranged god-monster for Eliot to decide maybe he does give a shit about Quentin after all?

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

Nothing. There’s just fucking nothing. Not to mention, Quentin’s got actual important life and death shit to do.

_We have to find the monster a new body—_

_We have to—_

_(We end up losing every time)._

His chest seizes. 

_There has to be a way—_

God, there has to be a way to _stop_ all of this. The pushing and swelling beneath his ribs, the churn at the back of his throat asking—could he? Did Eliot—is it possible?

It doesn’t matter, ultimately. Whatever the fuck he meant, whatever reasons he had for saying it. None of it matters.

 _I’m alive in here_.

He’s getting Eliot back.

*

It’d obviously been a colossal mistake; Quentin’s fully fucking aware of that, okay? He knew it at the time, is the thing. How exceptionally stupid he was being. But he was caught off guard, it was the middle of the night, he was weak. He’s so fucking weak. He’d thought—he’d thought Eliot was dead. That only makes it worse, what he did. All he’d wanted was to hold onto whatever remained of Eliot, but what he’d really been doing was cuddling up to a homicidal murderer just because it happened to be wearing the face of someone he loves. 

_Stupid. So fucking stupid_. If Julia found out, she’d—

 _What?_ Quentin’s blood is seething in his veins, brimming over with shame. _What would Julia do?_ She’d give him one of those fucking looks, probably. Over a decade of concern condensed into the widening of her eyes, the pitying quirk of her mouth a reminder of all the time she’s had to waste pulling _poor Quentin_ back from the brink. Because Julia’s a good person. And she’d never say the words, but she’d think them, she’d think it’s fucked up, what he did. Because it is.

The scariest part is that Quentin’s not really afraid anymore. It’s increasingly difficult to care what happens to him, though he tries, for Julia’s sake, to maintain some semblance of self-preservation.

It’s just. Sometimes it’s—too much. Saying no, stop it, please don’t kill—please don’t fucking do that. There are only so many times he can hold the line, and saying it aloud doesn’t seem like much of a priority when the monster’s gonna do whatever the hell bullshit it wants to anyway.

He tries never to be alone with the monster, but, like he’d told Julia, it’s not exactly something he’s got a lot of control over. It’s perhaps only a matter of time. Before what, exactly, he’s not sure. But you can’t outrun desire, that much he does know. A creature made of pure want. All it does and all it can ever be is want. And for whatever fucked up reason, it wants Quentin. This open, silent secret fills him with a slow pressure every time those fingers curl around his ear, nails catching blunt at his scalp; something ought to give, but it never does. He ought to snap or bend or break. He ought to say or do _something_. But instead, every time that hand pats his knee, the intensifying creep of tension threatens a point of no return without ever quite breaching the barrier. Skin tighter and tighter; there shouldn’t be any more space left inside, but somehow, his body keeps expanding and contracting around it, clenching and gripping, pressure building and building and building and it won’t ever stop. Like one long breath held for the rest of your days, lungs caught in endless panic.

Nobody notices that hand sliding along his thigh, and by now, he doesn’t move or flinch or feel anything at all.

_Get it out of Eliot, that’s all, that’s all you need to do._

Quentin lets the stillness take him.

_Just save Eliot._

*

“You fucking promised,” Quentin grits out. “You’re wasted again and god knows what you’ve taken. You’re going to kill him and—”

Both of Eliot’s hands circle Quentin’s throat, pinning him to the wall and punching the air from his lungs. Blood screams in his skull. It feels so fucking good not to breathe. Like a thunderstorm discharging a smash of heat and energy, the hard, glittering squeeze of it almost unhinges his body from his mind for one glorious moment. 

A wild gasp rips from his chest as the monster releases its hold. His jeans are suddenly, shamefully, much too tight.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Quentin says in a wet rasp as its thumbs stroke the hollow of his throat.

“But you like it,” the monster says, furrowing Eliot’s brow in a show of blatantly calculated confusion.

“I don’t.”

“You liked it when—” Its face screws up in disgust. “— _Eliot_ did it.”

Quentin coughs, turns his head from the monster’s grasp. “You don’t know anything about what I like,” he says, mouth rough and thick, his mind contracting to a windowless room for just one moment of reprieve before—

The monster smacks its palm against Quentin’s cheek, fingers digging in and forcing his head back, eyes cutting through him. “I know some things. And I could do it. Better than him. Just like him. Better.”

“No.” Quentin wants to cry but now’s not the time, it’s never a good time. “You can’t.”

“I could if you would let me. Q,” it says, so gently, so much like—

But the consonants are harshly elongated; ragged and fraught and _wrong_.

“Q. Let me. Look after you.”

Quentin’s mouth hangs open, he staggers sideways. Trips from the monster’s grasp, eyes stinging. “Wh-what’re you—don’t do that. You’re nothing like—you could never.”

The monster widens Eliot’s mouth into a feral grin, tossing his hand in a careless gesture that slams Quentin back and immobilises him against the wall of the apartment. “You know, don’t you, that it’s only such a dainty sheath keeping all your meatiest little pieces on the inside.”

This side of the monster is easier to deal with by far. Quentin rolls his eyes, almost amused and feeling increasingly reckless. “Yeah, and you can slit my throat with barely a thought,” he says. “So why don’t you fucking do it?”

Its horror looks so genuine, like it hadn’t literally just threatened to split his guts open and besides, Quentin knows how good a liar the monster can be. _I felt the moment his soul died._

“I would never do that,” it snaps.

“Right, sure. You already have a head start on breaking my bones, and that’s not even the first time you tried to strangle me.”

“Oh, Quen-tin.” It licks its lips, tongue swiping out in a mechanical gesture. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Quentin stares at it, aghast.

“Well,” it amends, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I suppose the first time was all hurt and no fun. But some of the hurt-each-other games are the fun kind. Aren’t they?” Quentin’s cheeks flood with heat and shame as it drags a knowing look along the length of his body. “Wasn’t it fun?”

“Jesus Christ. That is—that’s so much worse. Don’t you—of _course_ you don’t get it.” Quentin shakes his head, the room blurs; it’s not enough. The world refuses to dissolve. He needs—

Water filling his mouth, nothing to see but the endless dark. Or—

The bright smack of concrete on a sunny day.

He could just—

He needs—

He needs a world that’ll let him grow into the person he _knows_ he could be. A good man, a good father, a good partner and husband. But this world—

“I need to go. Can I do that? Can you just—do something else, somewhere else—without killing or hurting anyone?” He barely knows where the sounds are coming from anymore, just that he’s making them, somehow, he has to keep making them.

It closes the gap between them and drops Quentin to the floor again, spreading Eliot’s thighs to sit astride him, hands either side of his head as it thuds back against the wall.

If it was Eliot, he’d—

“But that sounds very dull.” The monster’s face twists in displeasure. “And this body, its insides, they are too tight,” it complains, sitting back and snatching a bottle of brandy seemingly from nowhere. “It pinches, too hot and _tight_ and the bran-dy only makes it more—I want. More.”

*

When the monster’s fist plunges into Aengus’ chest, Quentin barely registers it.

Their insides all look the same. Gaping, wet, bloody. They look like Quentin’s failure to act. Like the absence of the guilt he should be feeling. Because it should be getting harder to justify; all that red splatter, flesh ripping. But it isn’t.

Dumping a body in the ocean. _Okay, this is different_ , Quentin had thought. There were still atrocities capable of shocking his heart into some kind of horror. The lurch of the boat, saltwater sickening his throat. The monster grinning raggedly as he tipped the man—Allan? Quentin’s not sure of his name but he’d been a person only minutes earlier, and then he was sinking lifelessly into the depths and Quentin had committed a felony. He had almost wished—wished he could follow him. _Like when you got Benedict killed_.But he knows the monster wouldn’t have allowed it—it’d been having far too much fun with Quentin to let him go so easily.

Living with the monster had begun to seem almost frighteningly mundane, as though this was just going to be Quentin’s life now and all he could do was smack up against the inevitability of his failure again and again and again. And then Penny discovered—or, well. He found Eliot. Had actually talked to him, though there hadn’t been time for Quentin to ask for more details. He doesn’t know what he’d say in any case. He imagines asking Penny, _So, ah, um_. Penny’s arrogant smirk widening. _Did he, uh. Did he ask about me?_

Yeah, no thanks, Quentin’s own brain can humiliate him just fine without Penny’s help. Besides, he’s probably better off not knowing—about Eliot. _Fucking Eliot._ And concentrating on what they do know, which isn’t much, except that they’re in for a horrifying twofer now the monster has Julia. Once again Quentin’s put his best friend in the firing line and there’s fuck all he can do to help her. Yet it doesn’t feel as horrific as he knows, objectively, it should. Over the last few months, he’s become gradually impenetrable, solid and opaque, as though a thick, flat sheet of glass now occupies the place where his feelings ought to be, and honestly, Quentin thinks he prefers it this way.

In relatively better news, Margo’s back from some far-flung desert adventure and her shit-eating grin of steel is more reassuring than any words of comfort. Not to mention what she’s brought with her. Those axes could be a game changer. Could be they actually pull this thing off somehow. _Eliot’s alive_. There are still too many details to iron out, but there’s a more feasible plan taking shape than he’d thought possible and it gives Quentin the sliver of hope he quite desperately needs.

He rummages in the fridge, listening to Alice tease Margo about Josh. An absent smile makes his cheeks ache with its unfamiliarity, his face feeling for a golden-long moment as though it belongs to someone else entirely.

(Quentin doesn’t get it. Margo is utterly fearless and shockingly tender; she’s brash-hearted, sharper and more savage than any metaphor would dare to convey—she’s fucking _incandescent_ and he hasn’t given it, well, any thought, but if he had then dorky herbalist Josh Hoberman wouldn’t rank anywhere the top fifty candidates for Margo’s affections. Frankly, he hadn’t even known Margo had affections to bestow, so that in itself is a little mind-blowing.)

See, it turns out there’s more going on in the world than his shitty feelings. Strangely lightheaded, Quentin’s taken aback to learn that for at least thirty seconds or so, he’s capable of thinking about something other than his two best friends being possessed by homicidal monster gods. _Eliot’s alive_. Margo’s in love with a were-fish and Alice—he looks at Alice, really looks at her. Alice is trying to make amends.

After all, the way things are headed, they might not get another chance. The likelihood of them all making it out of this alive is getting slimmer by the hour. He doesn’t want to die mad at Alice. Quentin wants to try, too.

“Okay, here’s my thing. Um… I didn’t think that I could ever trust you again. And now…”

He falters when he looks at her again, her expression unreadable. Quentin had projected so much onto Alice when they’d first met. Seeing her again at Brakebills South, the old Alice. Vix. Had been—well. A tumult of emotions Quentin hasn’t really examined and doesn’t plan to. And Alice had been—really into him, actually. In a way he hadn’t grasped at the time, concerned as he had been with primarily two things; having as much sex with Alice as possible, and feeling deeply insecure about all the sex he was having with Alice.

He wants to see her with open eyes, see her for who she is now and not the girl he’d fallen in love with. _I’m not that girl anymore_. She really, really isn’t, and Quentin no longer wants her to be.

“And now?”

“I find myself wanting to.”

Alice exhales loudly and yeah, he gets that. It’s a lot. It’s always been a lot between them, they’d never had much of a chance for a normal relationship between foxes and fuck-ups and Alice dying and… Quentin lets out a sigh of relief that comes out more like a groan. He doesn’t want to think about this crap anymore.

Instead, he walks around the kitchen counter to sit with her, a faint gnaw of anticipation in his stomach.

“When we first met… I was clinging to some… naïve, idealistic notions of what the world should be. How people should be. And I think that I have realised… If I just throw away all that childish bullshit, I can forgive people.”

Quentin breathes out shakily; his voice is cut lower than usual and it’s making him feel more vulnerable than he’d like. He’s a grown-up now, and this is what grown-ups do. They see things for how they really are. They don’t always get their way. And they learn to be gracious, giving, forgiving; all things Quentin knows he’ll never truly be, but he wants to try. It’s worth trying. Because it’s Alice. And if things can be better between them, Quentin wants to forgive her. Alice, at least, is actually here for him to forgive. And Margo’s right: they’ve all fucked up. They all deserve it. 

“For not living up to my stupid expectations.”

“Like yourself?”

His attempt at a smile morphs into another half-sigh; his body can’t quite make sense of the emotions it wants to express, and, feeling a little incredulous with himself, he says, “What if we try again? I want you in my life, Alice.”

In the months following her resurrection, Quentin had longed for Alice to look at him like she’s doing now—like she actually wants his attention, maybe even wants—

The hostility he’s grown used to is fast giving way to something approaching hope, mixed with grief and guilt and—in a way he’d missed Alice more after he’d brought her back. Or maybe he’d just grieved the loss of her differently. When he’d thought she was dead he could still cling to the idealised version of her he’d conjured. It’d been harder to face the reality of her prickly glares, the icy disdain that made Quentin feel even smaller and stupider than he always already did anyway. _Gods like Ember have parents, you idiot._ The snappish line of her mouth, face twisting with contempt. The way she constantly asserts and refuses to acknowledge the superiority of her intellect. Voracious in her pursuit of knowledge while taking so little pleasure in it.

Quentin had, for so long, felt like he was asking too much of Alice. Always wanting so much from her, and the more he wanted the less she had to give.

_Can we just…_

_Can I just?_

_Would you just, please…_

_Alice, please._

The answer was always no, yet Quentin hadn’t been able to make himself stop asking.

“I want that, too.”

But holy shit, he’s not expecting her to kiss him. When he said he wanted to try again he’d meant—what had he meant? As friends? Or—what?

Suddenly he’s not sure. Part of him has wanted to be with Alice for so long that it’s easy to slip right back into wanting it again. Maybe he never really stopped. 

Right now, everything he feels for Eliot is just so incredibly fucked up. Because Eliot is the monster and the monster is Eliot. Alice is offering him the chance for something different. Something untouched by the half-century of emotions that don’t really belong to him. Weirdly, that something is a lot less complicated than his history with Eliot. Because that’s what it is, right? History. Maybe it was sort of beautiful, but it was never really his. Quentin wants to let go. He wants a future, not some imaginary past. Maybe he can have something good. Something real. Even if it’s not Eliot. 

And he’s not proud of it but Quentin has to admit, after begging Alice’s forgiveness for so long, it feels unreasonably good to be the one bestowing it.

If Alice wants him again, Quentin’s certainly not going to say no.

*

Quentin looks at Brian’s too-short hair and his own three-day old stubble and sighs, breath clouding the mirror. He picks up his toothbrush.

Alice is curled up in his bed on the other side of the door in her fancy matching silk pyjamas.

She looks—softer. Not as soft as she once was, but a great deal more than he’s grown used to lately. Her glasses on the bedside cabinet, hair pulled back from her freshly washed face in a no-nonsense ponytail. An Alice the rest of the world will never be privileged enough to catch a glimpse of. Beautiful, always—but. Those sharp edges tucked away, which—isn’t like her. Not anymore. The old Alice was—well. She’s not that girl anymore.

All he’s ever done is chase her down and demand things from her. And now he has her. He has the immensely complicated, stupidly gorgeous woman he loves— _you’re the best thing that ever happened to me_ , she’d said, in utter ignorance of all the ways he was about to profoundly and irrevocably fuck her life up.

The old Alice would don her prickliest armour, not to shield a vulnerable centre, but to conceal all the fury and passion and power raging beneath. All the grit and hunger that Stephanie and Daniel had barely noticed, and if they did, it was only to ridicule or patronise. All the things Alice had confided in him, which left her friendless and alone because no matter how hard she tried, Alice couldn’t pretend to be a normal girl. Always too much of this and not enough of that. Never enough of anything that other people wanted her to be. And yet even though her distrust of other people was thoroughly earned, Alice cared so fucking deeply about them.

 _She’s always been a better person than you. A better person and a better magician, too._ Quentin shakes his head to dislodge these musty relics from his brain; however accurate they are, that shit has no place between them now.

Back then Alice hadn’t liked anyone, but she liked him. She’d kissed him first and it’d awoken something powerful in him because no one had ever liked Quentin back before—not properly, not like that. He’d felt special with Alice, chosen—loved. No one had ever loved him like that. Loved _him_ —

 _Predictable’s not bad, Quentin_.

He’s missed her so much. The tiny smirk of her lips after effortlessly casting an especially complex spell. Her tipsy smile and the sharp-soft extremes of her gaze. The way touching her had felt like touching the secret heart of magic itself. He wants to feel that way again, can almost taste how good it’d be.

Quentin loves her.

He flips the lid of the toothpaste and allows himself, just for a moment, to think about Eliot. Not about saving him, just. Eliot.

He can’t really reconcile his feelings for Eliot with his feelings for Alice. He’s never been able to. Never had to. Not really. Not beyond the stupid, drunken threesome that’d ruined everything. No, he thinks, turning away from his reflection, from his own vacant stare. He, Quentin, had ruined everything. It’s not like it’d been a conscious decision. He’d been out of his mind. He’d made a mistake (a stupid hot fever dream of a mistake that still makes his blood quicken all these years later). And he can’t even think about the quest, the mosaic, the throne room, or any of the shit that happened next. 

Quentin brushes his teeth, too hard, haphazard.

He’s probably going to die.

So he should probably admit to himself that he hadn’t been that out of it, not really. He hadn’t been so wasted that he would’ve slept with just anyone that night. He’d wanted both of them. Badly. And they’d wanted him just as much.

_Margo kisses him and it’s so soft and fucking tender. Revelling in the luxury of this unexpected intimacy, he can’t stop the low sound of longing that falls out of him as she traces a line slow and hot and shivery over his jaw, nails grazing gently over his neck and down to his collarbone, her thumbs pressing into the hollow there. Just as he’s starting to feel self-conscious, like the air in the room is suddenly too bright, too frantic against his skin, their lips meet again and she moans hungrily into his mouth, teeth nipping, tongue teasing._

And Eliot—he really had been out of his mind. They probably shouldn’t have even _—_

_“Quite the sight for sore eyes,” he says, and it could easily sound like a joke, it should, coming from him, but it’s too rough, too intense for that. As he stirs to life Quentin’s still bracing for a quip or another sharp cut that never comes. “God, look at you two.” Eliot’s eyes dark and fiercely locked on them open Quentin’s to something yearning and vulnerable simmering beneath the surface of his arch smile. “My two favourite people in all the world…” The unabashed awe in his voice makes Quentin’s belly swoop low and hot. He’s thought about this. A lot._

This is the last thing he should be thinking about, the absolute fucking last, except for maybe—shit. It’s all starting to slip beyond his grasp, there’s too much churning up inside him and he’s not strong enough; he’s never been strong enough. The door cracks, hinges blown wide. It’s kind of what he imagines being flung out of an airlock would be like (a scenario to which Quentin has devoted entirely too much thought given that it’s hardly a viable method of suicide), except that the violent empty vacuum of space is by far preferable to where he’s going; the middle of the ocean, alone in the dark with his worst enemy—

_It stalks him around the cabin, picking and digging and ripping the scabs off every mistake he’s made, every dumb thing he’s ever said, every deeply buried insecurity. His own eyes gleaming, lips curved grotesquely: “Let’s talk about the threesome, shall we?”_

Fuck. Since the boat quest, he’s done a pretty good job of locking the depression monster away. After all, a new monster had come along to occupy his every fucking thought. But now that monster’s gone, and it looks like there’s a vacancy. Quentin knows better than anyone that nothing stays locked up forever. The shit you bury is always gonna be unearthed.

_“You weren’t satisfied with your hot as hell, smart as fuck girlfriend—or rather, it was her who was left unsatisfied, wasn’t it? Did you ever wonder exactly how many orgasms she faked just to get you to stop humping at her? And you talked a good game, flashing your feminist credentials, pretending you weren’t crammed full of resentment that Alice had more magical aptitude by the age of five than you could manage in an entire lifetime”—his awful smirking face alights with glee—“don’t worry, we’ll get to that particular shitshow later. Because unlike you, I can go all night long, baby.” Quentin, hands pressed futilely over his ears, isn’t even bothering to mount a rebuttal anymore. “So you screwed her over by screwing your best friends—the only chance you’d get since they never wanted you before. The only way they could bring themselves to fuck you is when they were too fucked up to remember their own names.”_

Eyes squeezed tight, Quentin tries to shut it the fuck down because it _wasn’t fucking like that_. It wasn’t. It wasn’t like that at all. It was—

_Hands reverent in the soft-silk of her hair, skimming her narrow shoulders, settling on the delicate curve of her hips. Quentin presses his lips to Margo’s, her smile against his mouth turning into a giggle. Half-naked and breathless, they break apart to find Eliot sitting up on his knees, swaying as though in a trance, eyes still locked intensely on them but not making any moves to join. In a daze of laughter they move as one to flank Eliot on either side, Quentin hanging back while Margo tips her head up for one of those kisses he’s seen them share, hard and biting and god, Eliot’s tongue tracing over Margo’s lower lip makes Quentin’s cock stiffen and jerk with anticipation._

_He watches them, a frantic sort of uncertainty unspooling in his belly. They’re grinning into the kiss now, open-mouthed and messy, eyeing each other with that easy adoration he’s always envied. He shouldn’t be here, Quentin thinks._

_Then, Eliot and Margo turn to look at him._

_Quentin’s breath hitches; becoming the object of their gaze is almost bruising in its intensity and he’s never felt all at once so bold, so wanted, so seen. The atmosphere shimmers around them, like a portal to another world is being carved open right before his eyes, and taking the leap isn’t a decision; it’s a fucking inevitability._

He’d hated them for that, after. Hated that all he could think about was—

_Margo’s hand curling through his hair, the tug of it honey-sharp. “You like getting your hair pulled, huh?” Quentin moans, not even caring how he must sound, because it feels so fucking good—it’s so fucking good, getting what he wants—and because she does it again and again, nipping and sucking along the line of his neck, her chest pressed warm against his back, nipples hard and dragging over his shoulders, sending a hot spark of arousal through him. Eliot chases his mouth, kissing him hard and slick, and Quentin’s burning up, he’s fucking consumed by a ruinous hunger that can’t be sated, all he knows is that Eliot’s body against his is like a wave crashing over him and Margo’s hand—fuck, he can feel her hand working between her thighs—“God, Margo, are you—?” The low gravel of her answering groan—_

It’d been nothing like sex with Alice. Back then, anyway. Because the sex had been different after magic was gone.

_Pinned to the bed, her hand in the centre of his chest. Her gaze hot, cutting through him while she rubs herself off on his dick, catching the head between her folds—she’s so fucking wet, thighs soaked. All he can hear is the slick sound of her as she fucks back and forth over the length of him for what feels like hours, thrashing and moaning and Quentin can’t take his fucking eyes off her—_

Her earlier reticence seemingly evaporated, the new Alice, harder and blunter and more intense than ever, had taken everything she wanted and frankly, that’d suited Quentin just fine. He has the sense though, that it’d aggravated her, that there was something she’d wanted from him, something she’d wanted to get without having to ask for it. He’s thought about it a lot, what that thing might’ve been.

Quentin keeps brushing long past the point of discomfort or necessity, scraping against his wisdom teeth with a grimace, knuckles gripped tight around the edge of the sink.

Though he pretends not to, Quentin remembers that night quite well indeed. The temporary intimacy sprung between them, their mutual need and longing, the care they’d taken with each other’s darkness. He remembers—

_The unexpected warmth of Margo’s smile, lower lip caught between her teeth as she grinds slow and dirty on him, guiding Quentin’s fingers in tight circles over the slick wet heat of her swollen clit—“Slower, slower… fuck, yes, just like that, don’t fucking stop—” Margo’s head flung back on Eliot’s shoulder, his mouth hungry at her neck. Quentin fucks up into her, utterly mesmerised by Eliot’s lovely long fingers teasing and playing with her nipples. They’re just bodies now, just groans of pleasure and skin flushed with sweat. Hands sliding, mouths wide and gasping, thighs clenching._

_Eliot’s throaty laugh of delight when Quentin finally gets his mouth on his dick is almost painfully hot, and he doesn’t feel for one moment that Eliot’s laughing_ at _him; affection and awe are just fucking radiating from him, fingers twisting and tightening in Quentin’s hair. The burst of pride in Quentin’s chest as Eliot’s hips begin to shudder and he chokes back a gasp; “God, your mouth, your fucking_ mouth _…”_

The worst thing is that while he deeply regrets hurting Alice, there’s part of him that could never regret Eliot. Not for a single fucking moment. Even if a shitty (amazing) drunken threesome could never be worth what it’d done to him and Alice—o _ur garbage fire of a relationship that ended with Eliot’s dick in your mouth_ —it’d pricked under his skin ever since, sparking something warm and knowing within him every time he looked at Eliot.

He doesn’t know if it’d really have worked out between them, but Quentin wishes he’d gotten the chance to find out. He wishes—but wishing is pointless. He does know that when he asked Eliot to give it a shot, he hadn’t been thinking about Alice at all.

Alice, his girlfriend again, finally.

_We were at our best when we were out of our minds. Literally. What does that say about us, Q?_

The messy, simple truth of things snaps into place: he loves Eliot. Or, he’d wanted to. He’d tried. Or maybe it’s that he’s trying not to? The snap of the revelation shatters as quickly as it’d formed because—

_We worked because we had to. We were flung out of time. It doesn’t mean anything special about us in particular, Q._

A terrible thought seeps out from the darkest limits of his consciousness where he’d banished it: Eliot might never be coming back.

He spits, rinsing pink-tinged foam down the drain. Throat raw. Even if Eliot comes back, if he walks through that door right now with a teasing grin and a freshly pressed vest, he doesn’t want to be with Quentin. Except, _peaches and plums, motherfucker_ —except, _that’s not me_.

_His jaw clenched, looking anywhere but at his own face as the other Quentin rips out the bare bones of his inadequacies and spits them at his feet: “Do you know you make this stupid breathy little moan when you’re about to come? Imagine having to resign yourself to a lifetime of those needy little squawks every time you wanna get laid, like an animal being stepped on. Yeah, real sexy. And you wonder why he didn’t want another round of your slobbering lips wrapped around his cock—”_

_Eliot’s cock, hot and hard and eager and Jesus-fucking-Christ-huge against Quentin’s as they kiss and kiss and Quentin never wants to stop kissing him—_ It’d been so different than he’d imagined. Because yeah, of course he’d fucking thought about it. Everyone knew Margo and Eliot liked to share boys (and sometimes girls, too) and Quentin had at first assumed himself too plain, too nervy, too boring to be asked. _He’s not that cute._ Then, he’d thought maybe it was safer not to be. That a night with Margo and Eliot might be one of the most thrilling of his life but—

Eliot’s perpetual string of hookups hand-feeding him grapes and topping up his champagne, hovering, hoping, scurrying away disappointed at the wave of his hand—it just. It’d made something twist in Quentin’s chest back then—something like envy and more than a little contempt—and he knows now that there’s no way in hell he’d have settled for being one of Eliot’s boys. Right. As though that’d ever even been an option in the first place.

But yeah, he’d thought about it. Fantasy’s a safe space, after all, and in that hazy glow of darkness, Margo and Eliot had been teasing and sly and hot, so fucking hot, that shared smirk never leaving their lips like they knew exactly how much they were blowing his mind as they took him apart again and again, night after night in the safety of Quentin’s own mind, dragging his hand over his cock rough and slow to draw it out as long as he could.

_It was all a big joke to them, you know that, right?_

No. No. Quentin knows better, he _knows_ —

_The pleased shock on Eliot’s face when Quentin kisses him first, their mouths crashing together with heat and desperation. Quentin’s so fucking desperate for him, groaning senselessly as Eliot’s hands grip his jaw and for the first time he wonders if Eliot’s careless flirtation might be hiding something more genuine. Eliot who makes jokes about seducing him, who treats the boys he fucks like disposable coffee cups—that Eliot is digging his fingers so hard, so beautifully, into the back of his neck. The rough whisper as his lips drag over Quentin’s mouth, his neck, his chest; “Q, god, Q…” over and over like he can’t believe any of it’s real._

Back in Fillory, it’d taken the better part of a decade for Eliot to finally admit he loved Quentin. And about half that time for Quentin to figure out how afraid Eliot was of being loved, how deeply struck that fear. 

_Do you think he’d ever have looked at you twice if you hadn’t trapped him in Fillory with you?_

He can’t tell anymore if it’s the depression monster talking or if by now they’re simply one and the same.

He does know it’s not right, thinking of Eliot now. It’s not fair; none of this is fair. He does know that he has to let this go.

Quentin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Alice is waiting for him, and it sure as shit isn’t fair to her.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he knows anymore.

Quentin’s not sure he’s ever really been happy except in fleeting fragments of a life snatched away from him before he could be the one to live it. And happiness isn’t exactly on the agenda right now. It might never be, regardless of the monster.

There’s too much shit snarled up in his brain and Quentin remembers why he doesn’t let himself think about any of this.

The clatter of his toothbrush into the cup by the sink.

His brain a distant drumbeat.

He doesn’t know how to reconcile any of it.

*

Eliot’s flat out on the forest floor. Margo’s frantic and clutching at Eliot’s stomach. There’s so much blood. Quentin claps his palms together to begin the spell. The power of hundreds of magicians around the world uniting to seal the monster away for good.

It’s happening.

*

The bond won’t hold for long. There’s so much blood.

All these months trying to save him. All the unspeakable things he’s watched Eliot’s body do. Quentin can hardly look at him. Thankfully, there isn’t time to dwell on it. He’ll see Eliot later.

He has to survive, there just isn’t an alternative, not after everything they’ve been through.

*

They enter the Mirror Realm with solemn purpose, Alice leading the way. Penny’s being a dick as per fucking usual, but they’re here and they’re going to end it.

*

“Everett.”

Quentin barely absorbs Everett’s patronizing attempts to flatter him but then—

“Your friend Eliot is safe.”

These past months have all coalesced around one central goal. One thought has looped incessantly in his brain—save Eliot save Eliot save Eliot.

It’s done.

Quentin thinks he should feel more relieved but there isn’t time, just another obstacle in the shape of a snotty librarian. Honestly, it’s embarrassing. A walking cliché who thinks he can handle the power of a god and the whole thing is just so—Quentin’s just. Tired.

*

He would’ve died to save Eliot and he’d told the monster as much.

_I will abandon you and I will die trying to burn you to the ground._

He’s done what he needed to do. Eliot’s alive. If he lets Everett have his way then it was all for nothing.

*

Even now, repair of small objects feels like nothing less than a slap in the face. What’s the point in fixing a mug or a snapped necklace if he can’t help his dad or himself or any of his friends? Objectively, his brain is fucked. He’s not sure if it’s always been broken but it’s always felt this way and it can’t ever be fixed. Everything is so fucking broken.

Some distant part of him would be screaming if he had the energy but Quentin’s too tired, thoughts looping on a new frequency; he’s done what he needed to do. It’s over.

His eyes flit between Penny and Alice; Everett blathers on.

_You’ll go down as a hero._

“Take her—do it now.” And Penny does.

Magic sparks through him, ready to do what he’s always wanted magic to do—to fix things.

*

“No! What did you do?”

He’s just doing what needs to be done, and there’s an ugly satisfaction to be had from the look on Everett’s face; he didn’t think Quentin had it in him. None of them did, they all underestimated him every time.

_You’ll die a hero._

*

_A hero._

Quentin’s gotten every single thing he ever thought he wanted and all it’s done is ruin him.

_You’ll die._

*

“Just a minor mending,” he says, and Quentin finally gets the one thing he’s always, deep down, truly wanted—complete and utter self-obliteration.

But for Quentin, the idea of the thing has always been better than the thing itself.

He should have remembered that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What about since you came back?” Margo asks suddenly, ignoring Eliot’s intense side-eye._
> 
> _Lipson raises her eyebrows expectantly._
> 
> _“I mean, he’s in mourning, that’s all. So that would be normal, right, to be maybe not so interested in banging it out?”_
> 
> _“Mourning—for your friend Quentin Coldwater?”_
> 
> _A shrill crack splits the plaster around the pencil still lodged in the ceiling._
> 
> _“I see.” Lipson purses her mouth and sighs. “Psychology is a significant component of casting. You must know this, it’s very basic stuff.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two is here!! A bit slower than planned thanks to the winning combo of a minor cold and a major depression. Yay. Also clearly the weekly posting schedule was... let's say ambitious, or perhaps wildly unrealistic? Nonetheless, it will definitely be updated and finished, just at a more leisurely pace. 
> 
> I don't think there are any content notes - Eliot is grieving, so that's rough going, but like, no more than the rest of this story.
> 
> The title of part two is from Placebo's English Summer Rain. 
> 
> Thanks to [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi) and [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick) for betaing!

###  **Part Two**

####  **fall apart and start again**

*

*

Eliot wakes up with an axe wound and a resolution: he’s going to tell Quentin everything.

His eyes blur and refocus, adjusting to the pale morning light streaming thickly into the room, illuminating the sterile décor of what must be the Brakebills infirmary. He gives a startled little laugh, delighting in the brutal twist of agony as his abdomen clenches. Because what a fucking shock to the system it is to _have_ one. To be able to move his hands and—well, not much else, actually. But he can have an utterly mundane thought like _fuck me, that itches_ and that thought connects to a physical sensation he can finally do something about, because he’s got his fucking body back. His arms and his chest and his legs—everything aches like a motherfucker as he gingerly scratches at his elbow, and it feels amazing.

There’s a significant chance Quentin’s moved on by now, but that’s so far beyond the point. It’s not about Eliot getting what he wants. It’s about admitting it. Quentin deserves to know the truth. He’s going to tell him how fucking sorry he is for being such an asshole, for all his prickly little comments and all the times he’s pushed Quentin away. He can’t exactly promise he’ll never do it again since, you know, lifetimes and habits and all that. But being released from the captivity of the darkest interiors of your own mind gives a certain kind of perspective, and Eliot’s not afraid of wanting things, not anymore.

Then Margo rushes past the flimsy curtain, and everything shatters. Her eyes are wet and bloodshot. He’s never seen her look quite so crushed, chin quivering as she explains it all in terrible, halting detail. Quentin is dead. Quentin sacrificed himself. Quentin saved them all. Quentin isn’t coming back.

Quentin. Quentin. Quentin.

His vision greys at the edges. Stomach convulsing and mouth filling with saliva, Eliot tries to hold back the inevitable—at least until Margo’s gone. Because if he’s gonna throw his guts up, he’d quite like to do it in private. (A troubling thought: since when would he rather be alone than with his Bambi?) It doesn’t matter, ultimately, because Margo isn’t leaving his side. She holds the puke bowl while he heaves up the horror, spit and bile the monster left in his stomach, fetches a cool flannel for his forehead and tenderly pushes his too-long hair back from his face. He takes a dutiful sip of water, wishing to high heaven it was something stronger. Even after he’s done puking, the nausea doesn’t really subside, settling in for the long haul as Margo fits herself against his side. She’s crying. Eliot tucks an arm carefully around her shoulders, grateful for the fresh sear of pain. He should be crying too. But he’s not. His fingers find her hip, digging in—Margo’s really here. Not a remembrance; she won’t dissolve in his arms like a dream. He makes a sound, small and gasping. Clutches at her mindlessly, as the punishing chaos of grief rips into him, muscles burning with numbed-out fury at everything he’s allowed himself to lose.

*

In the months that follow, Eliot’s grief carves deep and sharp into the core of him. During the day, it scrapes his nerves raw, twisting his gut into knots and jerking up in his throat. At night it crawls into bed with him, slipping silent and aching into his arms like a lover. He never wants to let it go.

Nothing he says or does or thinks is untouched by the pain of losing Quentin; yet, much to Eliot’s surprise, he finds he doesn’t want to drink himself into the gutter. His feelings are too raw and thick and rigid; no amount of whisky is going to cut through the heartache. Besides, if he forgets how bone-crushingly stupid he’s been, if he runs away from the pain, all he’d be doing is repeating the same fucked up pattern that led him here in the first place.

There’s more to it, he supposes, than his shitty behaviour towards Quentin that’s led him here. A million other choices made and not only by him, but. He can’t help it. Can’t help but keep tracing and retracing the line from _that’s definitely not you_ right through to _Quentin, he—he died, Eliot._

Quentin’s dead. And Eliot—well. He sunk his own ship, didn’t he?

Now he’s got to live in the wreckage.

*

The Physical Kids’ Cottage was the first place Eliot ever truly belonged. It was there he’d met Margo, the first person to ever truly understand him. Instantly besotted with one another and bonded for life by their darkest secrets, they’d done everything together. Drugs, decadence, depravity. All the pain of the morning after and the promise of the night before, giggling on the dancefloor and drinking until the sun came up.

None of it was really as debauched as the image Eliot cultivated. Well, some of it definitely was. But many of the moments he treasures most are the quietest. Lounging in each other’s laps, drinking each other in. Because Margo was a magnificent bitch and too goddamn right she knew it. He’d liked that about her immediately. That unlike him, Margo knew exactly who she was and made zero apologies for it.

He’d study her for days on end, committing to memory every roll of her eyes, the soft murmur of her lips brushing his ear. She was beautiful, obviously, but that wasn’t it. Devastating too, all done up with dark eyes that could cut right through you and god, he adored her mouth. Margo’s smile was the cruellest he’d ever seen, the curve of it dangerous and thrilling. Once or twice he’d actually been compelled to sketch out the dart of light and shadow in her eyes, the perfect twist of her lips. Heart pounding, he’d scraped an old stub of charcoal across the back of an envelope, a daze of quick-sharp lines that could never quite capture anything close to how he felt about her.

He’d never showed them to her. Not because they weren’t any good—they were. Or they weren’t bad, at any rate. Eliot’s got no real patience for art, but he’s decent enough at quick character sketches. No, he’d been afraid of what she might see. Because there was the high theatre of his devotion to her—no less genuine, for all it was so eminently choreographed—and then there was the vicious hunger that couldn’t ever be sated, the ugly squirm of need at his centre.

Nobody wants to see that, least of all Eliot himself.

They’d had so little time to truly enjoy the fantasy. Glitzing and gossiping alongside a rotating backdrop of various classmates, none of whom could ever draw his attention away from the glory of his Bambi for long. Even for all his many (so many) conquests, nothing had compared to making her laugh, really laugh, head tipped back in delight at something fabulously cutting he’d said. Nothing compared to the exquisite thrill of wanting her, except perhaps the tantalising, heart-wrenching notion that maybe he could _be_ her. Because when he looked at Margo, what Eliot treasured most of all was the glittering promise of what he could become: a magnificent bitch in his own right, impervious to the damage he’d sworn would no longer define him.

Nothing could touch him when they were together.

Maybe their intimacy had been, in some ways, a fantasy too. Maybe they’d hidden from each other as much as they’d revealed, if not more. But for a short while they’d been everything to one another, and that wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t nothing, being the one who got to see her undone at the end of the night, lazy and languorous, her lipstick worn off, both of them a little smeared around the edges and all the more in love with each other for it.

They’d brought out the best and the worst of each other, made countless questionable decisions, and all the while trying to build what they’d never have admitted they really wanted; a world that was just theirs, a world they could do more than just survive in.

What they have now is still precious, but far more complicated. Nothing at all like the simple hedonism of their first year, which had slipped by in a blur of bongs and joints, rainbow pills and glittering powders, and sure, they were escaping. But they were doing it together and that’d been all that mattered.

Now, Eliot can’t remember the last time he got high to actually enjoy himself and not to smother the ever-present crush of misery in his chest. He sighs. Because apparently he doesn’t even do that anymore—get high, that is. Or enjoy himself, for that matter.

Now, somehow, Eliot’s gotten caught in a seemingly endless slipstream of social events—if it’s not some bullshit Fillorian moon dance with Fen, then he’s plastering on a smile to get through one of Julia’s god-awful dinner parties. They mean well, all of them. They’re all trying to move on in their own ways, but Eliot—he just. Can’t. He’s stuck; a rock jammed into the riverbed, hard-edged and unyielding, while life flows on all around him. 

Josh’s latest efforts to rouse his spirits have brought them to Brakebills. Back here at the cottage, the place where the fantasy of his self-reinvention had taken root, Eliot has never felt so monumentally stupid for believing that anything good could grow from the wasteland inside him, that he might actually be able to cultivate a life worth living. 

There are throngs of people spilling in and out of the cottage; a new generation of plucky young magicians with stars in their eyes and the power to shape the world at their fingertips. The relentless glare of a sickly red strobe captures the party in full swing; flashes of light and colour pulse in time with the bass drop of some crowd-pleasing EDM banger Eliot vaguely recognises. Feeling profoundly out of place, he spots Josh lounging on one of the sofas by the window with a group of people he’s never seen before; a blonde girl and a pretty boy with dark skin and a cute smile. 

The pretty boy catches his eye, and Eliot’s heart catches in his throat. 

He stumbles out onto the porch, head spinning. It’s not only Quentin he’s lost—his hands are shaking in the cool evening air as he lights another cigarette from the sparks at his fingertips—it’s the person Eliot used to be, and the person he thought he’d become. So many Eliots, made and remade, worn and threadbare. The performance of himself has unravelled, and Eliot doesn’t know how to play his part anymore. 

God, he used to love this shit. Music blaring, cocktails flowing, losing himself in the sway of bodies on the dancefloor. But Eliot’s appetite for revelry has soured. All these kids. Drinking, laughing, dancing. Trying so desperately to be happy. 

Eliot doesn’t fucking want to be happy.

*

“It hurt, you know. Not the cheating. I mean, yes, the cheating.”

Here he is, marking time at yet another shitty bar, where fucking Alice has cornered him to have a lovely little chat about the time he fucked her boyfriend. Because, why not? Truly, it’s turning out to be another fantastic night out with the gang.

Alice is drunk. There’s no way she’d be telling him this otherwise. He stares at the watery margarita she’s just about barely holding onto. It looks vile, but it’d do. Because a whisky or several is how he’d have gotten through this before. But now…

“But, but really. That it was you.” She sucks noisily through a thin striped straw, twirling it to stir the ice.

Eliot nods, tearing his eyes away from her glass. Not that she’d notice him staring, because Alice is fixated on it too, seemingly unable or perhaps unwilling to make eye contact.

He knows this shit already, but it’s clearly important to Alice to get it out, and well, he did fuck her boyfriend, however long ago it might have been. So he lets her say it, digging his fingers into his knees under the table.

“I know it shouldn’t have mattered. But it just—I mean. Margo’s to be expected, she’s, well.” Alice huffs and Eliot feels a protective surge of resentment, but he lets it slide. Alice is perfectly entitled to harbour less than generous feelings toward both of them. Even if she doesn’t quite have the measure of his Bambi. In fairness though, that’s because Margo would prefer most people didn’t.

“But you were—” she cuts herself off with a sigh, still not looking at him. Okay, this is starting to get a little irritating.

“Not expected?”

Her lips purse and ah, there it is. She casts a defiant look at him, the effect somewhat diluted by the unfocused tilt of her gaze. “I don’t mean because—it’s not about you, um—”

Eliot raises an eyebrow in question, searching his pocket for a cigarette. It’s not a tequila, but it’ll have to do, even if his throat’s a little raw from the pack or so a day he’s taken to smoking lately. But let’s be fucking honest, the burn of it is all part of the appeal.

Alice is still at a loss for words and although he’s less willing to help her out this time, in the spirit of getting this conversation the hell over with, he eventually does. God, it’s all so utterly predictable.

“Not about me having a dick?”

She startles at that, perhaps not thinking he’d call her on it. Well, she should fucking know better.

“That’s not what I—”

“Alice, please,” he says, injecting a weary air of boredom into his tone. Perhaps this party isn’t so bad after all. “It’s exactly what you meant, honey, and I really don’t give a shit. You were _scandalized_ that not only did your precious heterosexual boyfriend sleep with a guy, but that it was me. It’s textbook, honestly.”

The next drag of his cigarette is deeply and abrasively satisfying, as is Alice’s response.

“Fuck you.”

Truly glorious.

“What?” Eliot forces out a peal of laughter. “I thought you loved textbooks. Should be pleased to find your emotional responses lifted straight from the classics.”

“Jesus, I’m not homophobic, okay?”

Eliot rolls his eyes but can’t be bothered to stage a rebuttal. After all, getting hung up on identity politics isn’t exactly his style.

Alice knocks back her margarita and if the twist of her fingers is perhaps a little less precise than usual, well, the glass refills all the same. 

“Look, realising that he was—I don’t know. I’m not explaining it right,” she says with an earnest expression that reminds him entirely too much of Quentin. His stomach turns.

“But it was _hard_ , okay. I know it’s not a big deal for you, but we’re not all, you know.” She waves a careless hand at him.

Eliot hums. “I’m afraid you’ll have to spell it out for me.”

Clutching at the stem of her glass, shoulders set stiffly upright, Alice says in a low, hard voice, “It’s all right for you and, and fucking _Margo_ , having your threesomes and your orgies, must be so nice to be so _sexually liberated_ —”

Eliot can’t help himself: he’s laughing outright now. Less at Alice’s outburst, enjoyable though it is, and more that it’s so far from the truth of who he really is.

Sex is easy. He likes it, sure, and he’s good at it too—very good at fucking around and having as much utterly depraved sex with as many men as possible. And there had been a lot of men, thinks Eliot fondly. Sex is easy, but that’s a smokescreen, a distraction. It had never been about liberation or honesty or anything much besides a temporary escape from himself. If he’d really been liberated, he’d have been able to have an honest conversation with Quentin instead of fucking him and running away.

Eliot winces. All those times Quentin had tried to talk to him about something important and Eliot had breezed right over it. _Let’s just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?_

He’s doing it now with Alice and he hates himself for it, just a little, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to stop.

“—But it’s not, I’m just not like that. And I thought Quentin—”

“You thought he was like you. A little inexperienced, a lot repressed. Well, not entirely wrong on either count as I recall, but he sure was eager to learn.”

Alice leans forward, eyes glinting. Through gritted teeth, she says, “Would you please stop putting words in my mouth?”

He smirks. “Hmm, tell the truth now, Alice, and maybe I won’t have to.”

“You know what? I don’t want to talk to you about this.” Alice crosses her arms with a furious glare, mouth set in a dangerously thin line and god, Eliot’s enjoying provoking her a little bit too much.

He relishes in his pettiness for a moment longer. “You’re the one who brought it up, sweetheart.” And then—he sighs. “Look, I’ve slept with other people’s boyfriends before, you know.”

“That’s really not something you should be proud of,” Alice says, wrinkling her nose.

Goddamnit, but Alice’s primly served judgement is the last fucking thing he needs.

“I’m not _proud_ , Jesus Christ. More like the opposite, actually, so you can spare me your sanctimony.” He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m just saying. It wasn’t about you, or even especially about Quentin.” 

(Well, maybe it’d been a little bit about Quentin. After all, Eliot had been trying to seduce him from day one. But he’d gotten off with half the campus by the time the three of them rolled into bed together, so Quentin was hardly special in that regard. And, it’s not like he’d planned it. If he _had_ planned it, Eliot certainly would’ve opted for a more stylish method of seduction than getting blind drunk and passing out.)

Alice lets out a derisive snort. “Right, sure.”

Eliot doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Because it hadn’t been—anything. Rough and desperate and hot as hell, but—a mistake. Nothing serious. Nothing at all. So, Alice can fuck off, because it’s the truth, isn’t it? And if she doesn’t like it—

His head thrums with an odd, almost dizzying sensation. He ignores the strain tightening his chest and lights another cigarette, using magic like he always does, but— _fuck_ —he yelps in shock as the flame spits from his fingertips in an angry flare, the whole thing burned to ash.

“What the _hell_ —?” He holds his hand up in disbelief. The tips of his thumb and index finger are lightly singed and throbbing. Looking down at his ash-covered clothes, Eliot’s too rattled to even attempt to conceal his confusion. This is fucking weird. That spell is practically second nature. In fact, he’s done it so many times he barely even thinks of it as a spell anymore.

“Um. Are you okay?”

The second last thing he needs is Alice’s concern, so Eliot laughs it off with a flourish, blames it on having too much to drink. Her brow furrows, and he realises his mistake. The old Eliot would never have admitted to such a thing as drinking too much, as Alice knows all too well. Eliot shifts in his seat. He’s not exactly hiding that he’s not drinking, but at the same time, Eliot absolutely doesn’t want anyone to know he’s not drinking. At these dreadful parties people keep throwing, it’s getting more difficult to maintain the façade of his former self.

(Look, he knows it’s clichéd but that doesn’t stop him from thinking it: how dare they have birthdays and finals, and how dare anyone celebrate anything when Quentin isn’t alive to sulk in the corner with his nose in a fucking Fillory book?)

And fuck it all to hell and back, it’s time to call it a night. Alice is on the verge of tears, her eyes hurt, face pinched with unhappiness, and Eliot doesn’t know why he put himself through the agony of this conversation at all.

“Look, I’m sorry I slept with your boyfriend, okay?” he says with a practiced sneer. “And I’m sorry he’s dead—that’s my fault too, after all.”

*

Eliot leans back against the carriage and lights a fresh cigarette from the embers of his last, foot tapping idly against the rim of the wheel while he waits for the delegates to head back inside. This bullshit trade negotiation is dragging on and fucking on; the Northern Marsh pixies won’t give an inch, and what the hell is Eliot even doing here?

God, he’s so fucking over Fillory. Maybe this world saved him once, but if it’s so determined to stay broken then why not just _let_ it?

He’s meant be keeping the centaur delegate happy—and once upon a time Eliot would’ve been all too eager to oblige. Hawthorn’s been giving him blatant signals all day and he’s certainly easy on the eyes. But he doesn’t want to fuck a centaur, or even flirt with one.

What’s _wrong_ with him?

A distant chatter rumbles over the little valley. They’re starting up again. Eliot doesn’t even pretend he’s going back in—like he’s even remotely qualified to deal with the centaurs’ gripes about their supply chain issues for some special healing wonder shrub.

Instead, he slopes off in the opposite direction of the delegation, heading into a forest of tall grass, amber-yellow and twitching in the breeze. After about five minutes, he’s woefully out of breath and grateful to reach a small clearing of starkly pale grey trees, their branches tilting at odd angles.

He slides down into the thick undergrowth, stretching back against one of the slim trees. Chains a few cigarettes, eyes closed to the glare of the sun. He sits there for a long time, smoke weighing in his lungs, heavy like a stone.

It hasn’t escaped Eliot’s notice that his addictive tendencies are perennially shifting their target.

“There you are.”

 _Shit_. Eliot startles, shoulders tightening as Margo approaches. 

“Negotiations going well?” she asks dryly.

“Oh, I’m making excellent headway,” Eliot says. His brain jumps to fabricate some bullshit, spin a story about fieldwork or whatever, but then he remembers that it’s Margo, and he doesn’t need an excuse for being a fuckup.

“Right,” she says, crouching down in front of him, her gaze curiously flat. 

He looks past her, eyes drawn to a fallen tree in the distance, its slender branches upturned and awkwardly splayed.

“Okay.” She leaves an odd pause, and Eliot tears his gaze away from the sprawl of chaos in the long grass. “So are we ever gonna talk about him?” Margo’s voice sounds strangely distant and far too kind. Even worse is the sympathetic tilt of her head, making his stomach churn. 

Every muscle in his body clenches in defense against some unknown attack as the strange dizzy sensation from the bar that night thrums through his chest cavity.

The tree trunk is almost entirely snapped in two, revealing a rich coppery heartwood at its centre. Looking at it feels—wrong. Like—witnessing something intimate, personal. Too much, it’s all too fucking much. 

It feels like—his worst fear crawling in his chest—

_“Okay, I… okay. Sorry, I…”_

_Quentin’s eyes darting, his face fixed with disappointment that he’s neither quick nor practiced enough at hiding. Or maybe he just doesn’t care to hide it, doesn’t care that his soft innards are exposed, internal wiring sparking out in the open where everyone can see it, where_ Eliot _can see—_

Fuck. If rejecting Quentin had been Eliot’s biggest regret before, at least he’d been able to bury it. Now, it consumes him, occupying parts of his body even the monster hadn’t been able to touch. It lies behind every thought, every glance and every sleepless night. It also lies behind every cocktail that goes unmixed, every pill he flushed down the toilet back at the penthouse so that he wouldn’t be tempted to hop back through the clock for them.

And it’s not even that Eliot’s certain of his feelings. It’s that he ran from them, like he always has. 

The branches sway in the breeze. Margo is waiting. 

Silently, Eliot panics.

“There’s nothing to say, dearest Bambi.” His voice sounds, if not entirely calm, then at the very least steady enough. “He’s dead, we grieve, we move on.” Only a slight hitch in his breath. Barely anything. He resists the urge to press his palm against the wild thump of his heart.

“Look, it’s okay to be fucked up by it.”

“Sure. But I’m fine.”

“Right. Okay. Can you even hear yourself?” Her tone is harsh, but Margo’s eyes soften, and Eliot can’t bear it. He pushes himself back off the ground, profoundly relieved when the strange, awful feeling subsides, though his muscles retain a woozy coil of tension, not quite fully releasing.

The tree roots are snarled and knotted every which way, twisting and trembling, seeking the earth that once grounded them.

“I’m just saying. You can talk to me about anything.”

That’s never really been true though, has it?

“Of course,” he says airily. His chest tightens again. “We should head back though.”

Margo gives him a quietly assessing look that’s irritating and frightening in equal measure. He doesn’t want to know what Margo sees when she looks at him these days.

Being himself used to be so much easier. He dredges through the motions of it, just in time: “So, Tick’s got his eye on some centaur dick, huh? Did you see him literally lick his lips when Hawthorn got up to speak? I swear there was actual drool.” He’s not used to acting this part, not with Margo in the audience.

All that effort, and she just ignores him anyway.

“After everything we’ve been through? I just got you back and you’re pushing me away again, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her eyes narrow and Eliot wearily rallies himself for a fight, but he’s literally saved by the bell—a gong booms out from beyond the clearing, and Margo shakes her head as she turns to head back to the negotiations. 

“Just go home,” she says. 

The roots flinch thickly, dirt scattering in clumps. Eliot looks away. Draws in a ragged breath. 

“Send the carriage back for Fen and me, ‘kay?”

He should feel more relieved to be off the hook, but part of him wishes that Margo would just rip into him—it’s not like her to pull her punches, and it’s not as if he doesn’t deserve the smack in the face—but she doesn’t even seem angry, is the thing. More like she’s tired of him. Which, yeah. He gets it. Eliot’s pretty tired of himself too.

*

Margo’s filling him in on the intricacies of Fillory’s new electoral system and Eliot’s thinking about the brutal crack of bone as Mike’s neck snapped. As he, Eliot, had snapped Mike’s neck. That’d been the last time he’d felt this same desperate unhappiness take hold of him, his stomach an endless churn of guilt and self-loathing. Shit, he’d been so fucking stupid, falling for Mike (a Republican, for fuck’s sake).

He nods at Margo, adds a “Hmm,” here and an “Oh, really?” there.

Quentin had done the impossible. He brought Alice back to life when nobody thought it could be done. A smile almost quirks Eliot’s lips at the image of Quentin’s lumbering cirque du soleil routine.

When Eliot had been falling apart, no one had seemed to notice or care all that much. Even his beloved Bambi. Deep down, Eliot knows he hadn’t exactly been receptive to any attempts at intervention, that he’d pushed them all away. Including his beloved Bambi.

Bambi, whose attention has been caught by—ah. Hoberman. Apparently a _lot_ can change when you’re possessed by the monster of all douchebags. Eliot nods absently at him and closes his eyes, relieved he no longer has to pretend to participate in the conversation.

Quentin had moved heaven and earth to bring Alice back. He’d gone to the actual goddamn Underworld. He would’ve done anything to save her. But back then, Quentin hadn’t so much as asked Eliot if he was all right. Hadn’t noticed or cared how close he’d been to the edge.

Which is fine, and not even really true. But he thinks it anyway.

Everyone’d had their own shit to deal with, like always. But no one else had just found out that the person they’d been fucking (falling for, really falling for) was a power-hungry psychopath stuffed inside a cute cowboy. No one else had just _murdered someone_. They’d all seemed to expect him to take it in stride, reel off a few quips and laugh the whole thing off. They expected it precisely because this was the image he’d cultivated. Was it their fault if they believed the hype?

Eliot can see now that all he’d wanted was for someone to notice that there was something terribly wrong with him, that something in him had broken and needed fixing. But at the same time, he’d have rather died than let anyone get close enough to find out.

Funny how coming close to actually dying puts things in perspective. The monster forced him to face all his worst fears and Eliot survived. The monster ravaged his body, poured pills and booze down his throat, much as Eliot himself had once done. And he’d survived. Because this time, Quentin had saved him. Quentin had—

“Eliot!”

He jerks in his seat, as though waking from a nightmare, but the nightmare is just his actual fucking life. Jesus, what a maudlin bastard he’s become. His life is just fucking fine. Quentin’s dead and Eliot’s _fine_.

“You’re not even listening, are you?” Margo spits at him, slamming a scroll down on the table between them.

Eliot rolls his eyes “What gave it away?”

“Oh, fuck you, El.” Her lips tighten. “Get your goddamn shit together,” Margo says in the slow, deadly drawl that she rarely directs his way. He must really have pissed her off. Good.

“You’re not the only one mourning him, all right?”

He stiffens. What the _fuck_? “I don’t know why you’re bringing up Quentin right now.” Eliot glances around wildly, looking for something or someone, he’s not sure what, but it’s just the two of them again. Shit.

“Because I loved him too, asshole,” she says, eyes flaring dangerously.

“Just leave it for once, will you?”

“I have been _leaving it_. I have given you space. I have given you time. You’re barely even in the room with us anymore. Is this really—”

Eliot cuts in fiercely—“Don’t you dare. If you say ‘is this what Q would’ve wanted,’ then I swear to god, Margo…”

Margo’s mouth purses, but she ignores his empty threat. “Look, jackass. I know you two had a special bond, ‘kay? And I know you went and caught a bunch of feelings—”

“You need to seriously step the fuck back. You have _no_ idea.” A hot burst of anger swells in him, the prickling intensity of it momentarily paralysing, forearms shaking with tension.

“No, I don’t!” Margo hisses. “Because you won’t tell me anything. I just got you back and I thought you were, that we were gonna be…” She trails off, visibly deflating as the fight seeps out of her. It’s not like Margo at all and ordinarily maybe that’d trouble him, but right now all it does it set his blood on edge.

“What, you thought after having a literal monster all up in my skin that I’d come back and we’d what? Have a big fucking party? Sit around braiding each other’s hair?” Eliot’s voice cracks with fury, the bitter taste of a resentment he can barely comprehend clawing at his throat.

“I thought we were past this shit. This is _important_. We’re deciding on Fillory’s entire fucking future, and you’re kinda being a huge dick right now.”

Eliot’s mouth quivers; he can’t help himself. “The best kind, then.”

“You know what—”

“No, and I really don’t give a shit.” His skin pricks, hot and tight like a fever; he needs to get the fuck out of here. He goes to stand up, putting both hands on the rough table edge for leverage, then jerks back in shock, cursing, the world contracting sharply to the dazzling sear of pain and the unmistakable reek of burning flesh.

What the _fuck_. The fucking table just tried to chargrill him. Eliot stumbles, the backs of his legs hitting the chair, palms stinging brightly.

Margo’s staring at him, mouth slightly open, her expression an awful mix of alarm and pity. “What the hell was that?”

“Nothing,” he manages. The black scorch of his handprint on the table crackles with newly lit embers.

“Don’t give me that crap,” she says, eyes fierce. “What’s going on?”

Even if he knew, Eliot wouldn’t tell Margo right now, that’s for sure.

“Who knows? It’s Fillory. Probably some shitty curse or I pissed off a tree in a former life. Revenge of the wood nymphs. Whatever.” He shrugs. “Shit’s fucked. I’m going to bed.”

Margo’s building to something and Eliot’s too tired for whatever it is she wants to interrogate him about next. God, as if not drinking isn’t exhausting enough, now he has to have all these fucking feelings he has no idea how to contain.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Eliot hears faintly as he goes, winding hazily through the coolly shaded corridors to his room. He doesn’t bother undressing, just gets into bed and lies there, his blistered hands and bone-deep exhaustion keeping him wide awake long into the evening.

*

It happens again the next day. This time—in front of the entire council—he brings a chandelier down from the ceiling in a crash of red and gold.

He’d laughed it off, rolling his eyes at Margo’s sharp look, but yeah. He’s pretty sure he’s cracking up.

If that’s true, if he really is cracking up… then surely a splash of bourbon won’t hurt. Might as well help the process along, right? Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much chance to consider it further, as immediately after the meeting, Margo barrels in through his wards without breaking a sweat.

“Oh, please.” She waves away his weak protest. “Like I give a shit what you’re up to in here, crying and jerking off in the middle of the day.”

Fucking _rude_. Eliot was certainly doing neither of those things, and definitely not, like, at the same time. Anymore. He’d put a stop to that sort of thing months ago. Weeks, at least.

Margo drops down uninvited on the bed next to him. “You’re freaking me the fuck out. Just spill whatever shit’s going on so we can deal with it.”

“It’s nothing, it’s—” Margo’s glare stops him in his tracks. “Okay, fine, I guess it’s not nothing.”

“No fucking shit,” she drawls. “I know you’re having a rough time, and I’m sorry, okay?” Margo’s head curls softly into the crook of his neck, fitting perfectly, like she always has. His arm wraps around her automatically, and to his surprise, even though he’s practically vibrating with fury, it feels really fucking good. Like always. Why is he so pissed at her? What, really, has she even done?

“What’s going on, sweetie? What do you need from me?”

Margo doesn’t ask questions like that. It’s not who she is, it’s not how they’ve ever been. He hadn’t even been gone that long, but when he woke up it was like everyone had figured out the answer to a question he hadn’t even thought to ask. 

“Margo, I—fuck.” Eliot shakes his head. “I don’t fucking know, okay?” He holds her tighter, too tight, fingers digging into her shoulder and he can’t—

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says, chin resting on top of her head. His chest feels ripped open, like every ugly impulse he’s ever had is being shovelled out onto the bed between them. “It’s just. Constant. Like I can’t breathe—it’s like there’s no air. I breathe in and my lungs, my chest—” He laughs. Loosens his grip, slow and deliberate. Of course. “Wow, am-dram hour. Yeah, I probably just need to cut back on the smokes.”

Muffled into his shoulder, Margo says, “Sounds more like a panic attack to me.”

He gives her a sour look before remembering that she can’t actually see it. Those looks never work on Margo anyway. “Bitch, I know what a panic attack feels like,” he admits, heartsore. “This is—something in my muscles? A cramp. Or my lungs, it’s definitely my lungs. Maybe I’ve finally smoked myself into an early death. I should get Lipson or someone to check it out.”

A bit too knowingly for Eliot’s liking, Margo hums. “Yeah, maybe. But do you know what a sober panic attack feels like?”

A visceral shudder jolts down his spine and he pulls away from her. “Don’t say that word, that’s not—”

“What, sober?” She cranes her neck up to look squarely at him. “Don’t be a baby, Eliot. Like I haven’t noticed you’re not drinking. You even passed on Josh’s unicorn special the other night.” More gently, she says, “I’m not saying it’s bad. It’s just new.”

He fixes her with a glare that even he can tell is a poor imitation of the former imperiousness he’s worked so long and hard to perfect. As expected, it doesn’t land. “Who even wants to get fucked by a unicorn anyway,” he mutters. “Sounds uncomfortable, if you ask me.”

Margo sits up, staring at him in disbelief. “Whatever, okay? I don’t give a shit if you’re drinking or not.” Her eyes narrow alarmingly. “Maybe you’re right, we should get you to Lipson.”

“That’s not—”

“No, it’s a good idea,” she says thoughtfully. “It was _your_ idea. Let’s do that.”

Well, shit. 

*

Everyone’s hugging and swaying on the dance floor, celebrating Julia’s birthday like it actually matters, and fucking Alice is haranguing him again.

“You’re telling me we’re not even going to try?”

“Try what?” Eliot’s only half-listening, staring wistfully at the bar behind her. Would one drink really be so bad? He misses his flask quite badly and has actually seriously considered getting an empty one to carry in his pocket, which he’s fully aware is truly pathetic. Will he ever be able to drink like normal people do? Whoever the hell they even are?

“You _know_ what,” Alice hisses. “Don’t be coy, Eliot, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Hm,” he says, eyeing the fussy crinkle of her pale peach blouse. “And that schoolgirl get-up has never suited you much either.”

He can almost see the disappointed downturn of Quentin’s mouth, the irritated tilt of his head. _Could you just like maybe, you know, not antagonise her?_

What he actually sees is a muscle in Alice’s jaw twitching. He breathes out a heavy sigh. “If you’re talking about— _that_ , then you already know it can’t be done.”

“How will we know for sure if we don’t try?”

There it is, that awful, tight, dizzying strain. Eliot shakes his head, pushes on. “Because we do know. Quentin’s gone.”

“But—”

Eliot’s temper flares quick and hot and it’s oh-so-fucking satisfying to let it loose. “Some things don’t change, hm? Quentin’s _gone_. Don’t you get that? He died. He fucking died. I know everyone’s drummed it into you that you’re some hotshot know-it-all, practically a goddamn master magician at the tender age of twenty-four, but no one—not even you, Alice-fucking-Quinn—can cross that border. God, you cocky little bitch. The sheer arrogance is—you think you can bring Quentin back, what, because your epic love story so desperately needs a new chapter? Grow up.”

Fizzing with the sour pleasure of righteous anger, Eliot stalks off before Alice can muster a retort. Fuck, he needs a drink. And goddamnit, the bar is right there by the exit. Just one drink, anything, he’d take a Sex on the Beach, a fucking shot of crème de menthe—anything to _stop_ this squirming snake pit in his gut. He falters for a half-second of indecision as he reaches the bar. Fuck fuck fuck. He doesn’t need a drink. He needs to go home. Or, well. Back to Fillory. Alice can fuck off—and so can Julia for that matter. Not like she needs him ruining her birthday by sulking in the corner all night.

*

Eliot rolls over onto his side, careful not to jolt his stomach. The wound is mostly healed now, but it still pinches like a bastard if he’s not careful with it.

He should’ve taken Margo up on the ambien. Why the fuck hadn’t he? Why the fuck is he still awake, and why can’t he stop thinking about Alice? Or, really, the story of Alice and Quentin. Their story makes so much more sense than the fifty years he’d spent with Quentin. _Because it literally fucking happened, that’s why_. No one else even knows about their… relationship? Eliot doesn’t even know what to call it.

If it doesn’t have a name and nobody else knows about it, does it even exist?

Best friends, that’s what they’d always been. Best friends who sometimes slept together. Best friends who built a life, raised a son together.

See, the thing about Alice and Quentin is that even if it’s a tad unconventional, their story makes sense. When you break it down, it’s basically just boy fucks up, girl eventually forgives him. Old as time.

Quentin and Alice. It just feels right.

Besides, given a choice between Eliot Waugh and Alice Quinn—well, Quentin picked Alice in the end, and that’s for the best. _Because you rejected him_. 

Now, however much Eliot wishes he’d done it differently, however much he fantasised in the happy place about all the ways it could’ve gone—well. Back in the real world again, it hardly seems feasible. What, would he have started _dating_ Quentin? Come the fuck on. It’s laughable. It’s absurd. It’s just not who Eliot is.

And if anyone’s got a shot at bringing Quentin back, it sure as shit isn’t him—it’s Alice-fucking-Quinn. No-fucking-brainer.

What’s Eliot ever done, after all? Sure, he’s good at magic. Better than good, even. But they all are. That’s like, a prerequisite of Brakebills admission. He’s not special like Alice or Julia, Quentin’s two great loves. Eliot had turned out to be a spectacularly mediocre king and a terrible husband, and now what does he have? He’s an alcoholic without a drink, a disgraced former monarch who’s been shunted off into the high council and doesn’t even know what his own job title is. And he’s making it his sole mission to alienate the one person in this whole fucked up world who actually cares about him.

Let Alice save him. That would be the perfect fairytale ending, wouldn’t it? Quentin returns to his body, a bewildered little sound torn from his throat the moment his gaze catches on Alice. They hesitate, but only for a moment. A big, beaming smile breaks out over Quentin’s face and they run to each other, music swelling and Eliot would—be there, too. Watching. Wallowing in this swamp of guilt and regret he’s built for himself.

Oh for—fuck this sentimental crap. He’s better than this. What the _fuck_ has happened to him? Time was, he’d been the master of shoving his feelings down deep where no one would ever think or care to look. Of course, being lightly sloshed practically 24/7 sure had helped the process along. Fuck, he can almost taste it, his mouth watering indecently. It’s been months.

One drink won’t hurt.

Eliot scrambles up and off the bed, rummaging in the cabinet by the window before he remembers that he’s already cleared out the room, obviously anticipating this very moment. He hesitates for a long time before finally slipping on a cherry-red robe that opens up a pang of nostalgia for his Brakebills days and creeping out into the hallways. He’s not sure why he’s being so weird and furtive, except that he knows exactly why.

Rifling through the pantry in the kitchens, Eliot has to admit that this does somewhat reek of desperation. It’s not a good look. Besides, there’s nothing here except cooking sherry, and even he’s not that hard up. But then, mercifully, his hand curls around a cut-glass decanter. Jackpot. He pulls the stopper out and smoke fills the air, hitting the back of his throat, the sensory onslaught conjuring a memory of—oh, god. That night. When he’d pathetically thrown himself at Quentin and been not unkindly rebuffed.

He shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet, a cold panic spreading in his veins. What the fuck is he doing?

Some part of him wants to just get this over with. He’s clearly going to fall off the wagon, so it might as well be now. Besides, he stopped drinking because he’d wanted to, and now he doesn’t want to. The inevitability of this logic is very compelling.

 _Stop dreaming about a second-rate affair in some shitty backwater timeline_.

Eliot breathes out, closing his eyes tightly. Sure, he’d been terrified. But did he have to be such a dick about it? No wonder Quentin would never have chosen him. _Except he tried to, didn’t he?_

Eliot’s been running away from himself ever since he can remember, and he doesn’t know how to stop.

_If I’m braver, it’s because—_

But he’s not braver. Because Quentin’s fucking dead.

He shoves the stopper back in the bottle and strides calmly out of the kitchens and towards Margo’s bedroom which is… locked. Huh. He considers breaking down the door but decides that’s a little dramatic, even for him. When he knocks, Margo yells out a clipped, “Fuck off,” so he knocks louder, slamming his fist against the door with an intensity that catches him off guard.

“Margo,” he yells back. “Marg—” She opens the door almost immediately and whatever she sees must be pretty bad, because Margo orders a half-naked Josh (there’s something he’ll never unsee) out of the room pronto and ushers Eliot inside, a firm hand at his back as she leads him to the bed. “C’mere,” she says softly, and this time she doesn’t ask what’s wrong, just wraps her body around him into a tiny big spoon, and it doesn’t make him feel better because he’s not sure anything can, but it’s enough to wrench something out of him and into the flickering shadows of the candlelit room.

“I don’t know how to do this without drinking. I don’t know how to do anything, I can’t do it, I can’t deal with all of this—” Eliot gasps loudly and brings his hand to his mouth, cheeks hot. He fights to regain some semblance of nonchalance and gets about halfway there. “God. Fuck. I haven’t been sober for a long fucking time, okay? Maybe since I was sixteen or so, and even then it wasn’t exactly a full-time gig. And it’s bad enough without you trying to make me talk about it all the time. I’m a fucking mess, I know that already. And I’m useless as shit when I’m not drinking so—”

“Can’t argue there, sweet cheeks. You’ve been moping around the castle for months on end now and well, you’ve always been a mess, honey.” She curls her fingers through his hair, nails sharp-sweet against his scalp. “You’re just having feelings for the first time in your life that aren’t drenched in tequila.”

“Tequila,” Eliot says mournfully. “I want a tequila. Or a sambuca would even—whisky. I want whisky. How am I supposed to get through life without whisky?”

Margo laughs, not unkindly. “You have heard of therapy, right?”

His head jolts in revulsion, smacking her in the chin. “Sorry! Shit.” He wriggles around to face her, dropping a tentative kiss on her cheek. “Bambi, no. How could you?”

“It’s not so bad, actually.”

Eliot twists to look at her properly, certain she’s putting him on. “You’ve been to—” he gives a theatrical little shudder that’s not entirely for show—“ _therapy_?”

“I needed to keep my shit tight,” Margo says simply. “I talked to someone. It helped.” She shrugs. “It’s really not a big deal, it turns out. Taking care of your bullshit. You should try it.”

He gapes, floored equally by the admission itself and Margo’s blasé attitude. “You never said anything.”

“Didn’t need to. Besides…”

“I haven’t exactly been around for that kind of conversation,” Eliot fills in. “No, I get it.”

“Therapy though.” He shakes his head. “Bambi, no.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re going to hate it.” She smiles, a proper smile that only a rare few are privileged enough to witness, but Eliot doesn’t even have the wherewithal to fully appreciate it. “You’re really, really gonna hate it.”

“I am _not_ going to therapy.”

“Oh, honey. What exactly do you think the alternative is?”

*

“I thought I should come and get checked out, you know. Axe wound, possession, all that jazz.” Eliot grimaces and rushes the rest of the words from his mouth, like spitting out rancid milk. “And just one more tiny thing where I can’t breathe properly and my magic’s behaving a little… oddly.”

Professor Lipson frowns at him, holding up her diagnostic spell glass. “Odd how?”

“Ah…” Eliot stalls.

Through the curtain, Margo says, “You better pussy up and show her, El, or I swear to god—”

“All right,” he mutters. “Jeez, no such thing as patient confidentiality regarding my very sensitive and private medical issues.”

“Nope!” Margo calls back cheerfully. “Show her your wonky spells!”

Eliot really, really regrets telling Margo about any of this.

Lipson looks at him expectantly.

“It’s nothing really,” he starts, and Margo gives a loud, performative sigh. “Bitch. Okay, fine, it’s something.” Swearing under his breath, Eliot curves his fingers elegantly into a tut that should’ve produced a basic illusion, but instead the wall behind Lipson cracks open. “Shit.”

Lipson, unperturbed, repairs the wall behind her with a flick of her hand. She casts a complicated looking charm, muttering under her breath and says to him, “Again.” She makes him do the same spell several times, scribbling in between and checking his pupils each time it goes wrong, repairing a small table and a smashed glass of water, putting out three fires and preventing a small tree from erupting in the middle of the infirmary. She moves onto another first-year spell Eliot should’ve been able to do in his sleep until finally the walls begin to shudder violently and she puts a stop to the examination. “When did you notice your magic was behaving abnormally?”

“I dunno,” Eliot hedges. “A few weeks, maybe.”

“Yes, I see. Your discipline is telekinesis,” she murmurs. “Hmm. Could you pass me that pencil?”

Eliot scoffs. The pencil sits on the recently repaired table less than a foot away. With a simple tut, the yellow No. 2 rises and makes a lazy path in the air towards Lipson’s outstretched hand. But before it reaches her, the pencil begins to shudder and shake, twisting jerkily and shooting up into the ceiling. Only the pink eraser can be seen sticking out of the white plaster.

He shrugs, a little embarrassed. “It’s not always that bad.”

“It is!”

“Yes, thank you Margo,” Eliot snaps. “You might as well come in now, you’ve been eavesdropping this whole time anyway.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Margo says, yanking the curtain aside and dropping down next to him. “So, what’s the deal here, doc?”

To her credit, Lipson ignores Margo, but then, horrifyingly, makes a brisk gesture in the direction of Eliot’s crotch. “All in working order down there?”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Eliot mutters. “There’s nothing wrong with my dick. I’m here about my shitty spells.”

“Defensive, hmm. Are you engaging in any sexual activities with a partner?”

He frowns. “Not… currently.”

“You jerking it?”

“Okay, what the fuck. That’s a very informally phrased personal question.”

Lipson shrugs. “Are you?”

“Yes, god, I jerk off, okay. How is that relevant here?”

“So you’ve had no problems getting it up, keeping it up, or you know—” she mimes a small explosion—“that sort of thing?”

“ _No_.”

“Huh.”

Margo smothers a giggle and Eliot kicks her sharply in the shin, which only provokes another peal of laughter.

“And you still want to, you know.” Lipson performs another vague gesture that still somehow manages to be mildly obscene. “How often would you say…?”

“What, now you’re too shy to say it?” Eliot huffs, aware he’s being perhaps a touch dramatic, but still, this is _not_ what he came here for. “I dunno, a normal amount.”

“What about since you came back?” Margo asks suddenly, ignoring Eliot’s intense side-eye.

Lipson raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“I mean, he’s in mourning, that’s all. So that would be normal, right, to be maybe not so interested in banging it out?”

“Mourning—for your friend Quentin Coldwater?”

A shrill crack splits the plaster around the pencil still lodged in the ceiling. 

“I see.” Lipson purses her mouth and sighs. “Psychology is a significant component of casting. You must know this, it’s very basic stuff.”

“Sure,” Eliot starts. “But let’s be real, I’ve never exactly been the most emotionally stable—shut it, Bambi,” he says in answer to her rather undignified snort. “It’s never affected me before, is all I’m saying. It’s something physical. Has to be.”

“No,” Lipson says, with a very definitive air that Eliot finds frankly rather irritating. Really, a few first-year spells and several glib questions about his masturbation habits. Is that what’s passing for medical care these days?

“It’s physical in the sense that your body has been severely affected by years of substance abuse, but hey,” Lipson says, hands up, “not throwing any stones from this direction.”

He stares at her. “Sure. It hasn’t exactly escaped my notice that pretty much everyone at this school is a functioning addict of some variety.”

“The key word there, Mr Waugh, would be ‘functioning,’” she says, brisk and bracing. “Something which you are no longer doing, at least magically speaking.

Margo mutters something under her breath. Eliot decides he’d rather not know.

“Quentin got depressed all the time and his magic was fine!”

“Quentin wasn’t an addict,” she says tartly. “An addict who’s gone cold turkey, am I right?”

“Mm.” Eliot is still pretending that he’s not trying to _stop_ drinking so much as he’s simply _not_ drinking right now and this distinction he’s cleaving to is liable to break down under even the most cursory examination so he quickly moves on. “What am I supposed to do?” He’s not expecting a terribly useful answer and sure enough, Lipson fobs him off.

“There’s nothing wrong with your magic per se—all your spells cast as intended, albeit with some inadvertent effects. Some of your spells are stronger than you intend, more power behind them, or else less than required—correct?”

Eliot’s nod is a quick snap, grudging.

“And you mentioned chest pains, anxiety?”

“N—”

“Yes,” Margo answers firmly. “He’s been having mild panic attacks.”

“Unsurprising,” Lipson says. “Anything else you’re not telling me?”

Margo’s elbow digs sharply into his side. “Ugh, fine. Sometimes it happens when. Well. When I’m not casting anything.”

“Aha, well that about confirms it. As I say, nothing wrong with your spellcasting. It’s the caster behind the spell. Basically, you’re an emotional wreck right now—”

He cuts in. “Sorry, what? That’s your diagnosis? Are you kidding me right now?”

“You’re an emotional wreck and everything you’ve been repressing with pills and booze and whatever else has come to bite you in the ass—happens sometimes. More than you’d think.”

Eliot tries for his most withering look. “Yeah, no offense, but that’s a bullshit diagnosis and it’s definitely not what’s happening to me.”

“You know,” Margo says, backing off at Eliot’s glowering expression.

“Don’t tell me you agree with this, this—hogwash,” he says hotly.

Margo shrugs. “You telling me it doesn’t make sense?”

“What, my poor repressed _feelings_ are making my spells go haywire?” Eliot scoffs. This is unbelievable. Completely ridiculous. Why did he even think this was a good idea?

“Good, good, now you’re getting it. And my prescription is simple. Start expressing your poor, repressed feelings once in a while, ideally in a therapeutic setting, and your magic should respond.”

“I didn’t come here for this, this crackpot psychobabble.” Eliot sniffs.

“Eliot.” Margo glares at him but Lipson clearly doesn’t give a shit about how prickly he’s being and apparently he’s meant to be expressing himself, so fuck it. He lets his carefully curated disdain settle into a full-on scowl and feels immensely better for it.

“You came here for my professional opinion as a physician and you’ve got it,” says Lipson, folding her arms. “Talk it out, and quick about it, before you explode. Not literally,” she adds. “Probably.”

“Surely there’s some sort of potion—”

“I’ll make a referral to a specialist, wait for her office to get in touch.”

“Thank you, Professor, we won’t take up any more of your valuable time.” With a smirk a mile wide, Margo ushers Eliot towards the door.

“There’s got to be a tonic for this, some kind of herbal remedy?” he calls out. “Really? Nothing?”

*

They stay at the penthouse that night to catch up on some Netflix and enjoy the wonders of indoor plumbing. Margo is unbearably pleased with herself; she doesn’t need to say the words, her entire posture and tiny grin are the very embodiment of the words “I told you so.”

“Oh, don’t look so smug, Bambi, it’s unbecoming.” If anything, her smirk widens. Goddamnit.

“Seriously though, you heard what she said.”

“I did, which is why I’m getting a second opinion.”

“Don’t sulk.” She nudges at his shoulder. “Or, sulk all you like, I suppose. In therapy.” Margo’s grin snaps into an actual cackle and Eliot wants to kick her. Hard.

“Not that I’m considering this even for a second, but who did you see?”

“I went to a muggle, but you’re gonna need the big guns for this one. Lipson’s right, you need another magician to talk to.”

Eliot casts a dubious look in her direction.

“All right. When I went to therapy, I had to deal with that whole thing where I thought you were dead and I was gonna be alone forever. And then underneath that I had your standard daddy issues, intimacy issues, blah fucking blah. Loneliness, grief, shitty parents. Garden variety therapy. But you? You’re dealing with some serious shit. You need a therapist who knows about anxiety and PTSD, and who can help with your magic. It’s getting worse, you told me so yourself.”

“I mean, sure. When you lay it all out like that—but. Everyone’s got their shit to deal with. I don’t really see what I’ve got to talk about that I can’t deal with on my own. No offense.”

Margo studies her nails with an expression too complicated for him to parse. It gives him pause. Since when has he ever been unable to read Margo?

“Want me to do you?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t mean the fun sexy way, do you?”

Margo ignores him. “Let’s start with your tragic gay backstory, shall we? Years of repressed shame, a veritable feast of childhood traumas—which reminds me, a whole other set of delicious daddy issues to play with.” She waggles her eyebrows ridiculously and Eliot can’t help but laugh, even as she’s reeling off his greatest hits of misery and trauma. “Let’s see,” she carries on. “Then there’s what ever the fuck happened with you and Q that you don’t wanna talk to me about—which is fine, honestly it is, but you gotta say this shit to someone.”

No, he really fucking doesn’t. “Since you seem to know so much about it, can’t you just do it for me?”

With a stern look, Margo straightens up, drawling slow and deadly. “Are you, a _man_ , suggesting that I, a woman, perform your goddamn emotional labour?”

“Ugh. Fine. But my list doesn’t sound that much worse than yours.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t finished, dipshit. We’ve still got your various addictions, the two people you’ve killed—”

“Don’t,” Eliot says harshly. “Margo—”

“—that one crazy time you were possessed by a monster so vicious that even the gods who created it couldn’t kill it, and oh yeah, I nearly forgot, then you woke up and found out Quentin had died saving your sorry-ass life.”

All throughout Margo’s charming little pep talk, Eliot grits his jaw tightly, holding his breath so he doesn’t cry, because ugh, embarrassing, but as she nails the final strike, the pièce de résistance of his repressed trauma, his chest seizes like a door slamming shut; the panic he’s been smothering is pressing up against the hardwood with nowhere to go, and he’s losing control in quick white flashes, rapid jerks of breath, blood hammering in his skull. A gasp slips into a shameful sob. Great. Just fucking—yeah. So much for not crying.

“Well, shit a banana,” he hears Margo say, as though from across the room. “There it is.”

Eliot stares at her in terror; he has no fucking clue what to do. Margo’s arms circle him and her worried face blurs as his eyes flutter closed. He hears another cracked sob as Margo’s palm rubs soothing circles over the clench of his heart.

“Hey. Fuck, I’m sorry, okay?”

His eyes open, breath coming in awful little gasps he can’t control. The air is thick and heavy, like dirt packed into his lungs.

“Okay, shit. Breathe with me, all right? Yeah, nice deep breaths.”

Margo guides him, until eventually, Eliot’s shuddering panic levels out and all his pent-up adrenaline empties down the drain, leaving him in a cold sweat, blank and boneless in her lap.

“Fuck me,” Eliot says, weak, but on his way back to himself. “And _not_ in a fun way. Did you seriously just engineer a panic attack to score a point?”

Margo’s hand stills in his hair.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs. “S’nice.”

“Sorry,” Margo says quietly, resuming. “I didn’t think, I’m so sorry. But also, yeah, I think my point is sufficiently made.”

“And with such dramatic flair. That’s my Bambi, hmm?”

Clearly relieved, Margo pulls him into a proper hug, crushing him against her chest. He says, muffled into the soft silk of her sleepshirt that he’s getting all gross and wet with snot and tears, “Et tu, Bambi—you win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@stormscoming](https://stormscoming.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When she’d gone back to the Mirror Realm, the terrible place where it happened, Alice hadn’t allowed herself to believe she’d make it this far. But she’d needed to see it for herself. That he was really gone. And then, well. It was a small thing, really. Any other magician might’ve missed it, but Alice isn’t any other magician. She was a Niffin, and she’d known in her bones the sharp-slick taste of residual magic. At first, she’d rationalised that it didn’t mean anything, even as her heart lurched with the truth of it. Because of course it meant something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi) and [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick) for betaing. Also, I am told that this chapter _is_ in fact more heavy going than the rest, so make of that what you will!

It’s not long into his first therapy session with Dr. Laura Ruiz, and they’ve already lapsed into a rigid silence—an amateur tactic that will in no way work on him, but still. Eliot’s fucking bored as shit.

He crosses one leg over his knee, aggressively impassive.

“Eliot,” Ruiz says, her voice gravelled and deep, and nothing at all like the soft, soothing tones he’d assumed all therapists would adopt. “It’s pretty clear you don’t want to be here, but believe me, you need to be.”

Stifling a sigh, Eliot says, “And why’s that?”

“Professor Lipson sent over your file—” at his mildly outraged look, she says, “It was in the documents you signed. You initialled right next to it.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I can see that Professor Lipson has done an extremely thorough examination—”

“Are you kidding me?”

Ruiz frowns. “It says here that she assessed your magic, and conducted a psychological examination—”

“She diagnosed me as an emotional wreck!”

Lips twitching, Ruiz says, “I realise Professor Lipson can be unorthodox. And of course, professionally speaking, I wouldn’t use the term ‘emotional wreck’…”

“What do you call it then?”

“Well, there isn’t one official name for it. People without magic might experience this as severe emotional distress, or even a major depressive disorder. Very often, these issues are underpinned by trauma. However, in the magical community, there are plenty of documented cases—” 

“Cases of _what_ , exactly?”

“Of magicians whose emotions interfere with their ability to cast in some way. Now, this isn’t an official diagnosis yet, but I suspect there are some deep-seated, intense emotions that you’ve previously managed to suppress using other methods, and these are now affecting your magic. They’re called magical surges.”

Yeah, no. Definitely fucking not. “Okay, whatever.” Eliot’s mouth twists. “Let’s say I buy that. Then how do I fix it? My spells are all screwed up, and that’s literally the only reason I’m here.”

“You need to learn to manage, regulate and express your emotions. Talk about whatever you’ve repressed for so long that’s led you here, for a start.”

“No offense, but that sounds utterly heinous.”

She laughs, her sharp mouth crooked and not especially kind. “Yes, well, I didn’t say it’d be easy. In fact, it’s going to take months, probably longer, and you have to act now if you want this to improve.” Sitting forward in her chair, she clasps her hands together. “I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s a possibility this could be a lifelong condition.”

Eliot’s body floods with cold panic; he grips the arm of the chair tightly, but doesn’t feel any steadier for it. Liver damage, yeah. That’s a given. Maybe kidney, and probably heart too. Let’s face it, between the pills and the booze and the sheer amount of psychological bullshit he’s put it through, that fucker’s shredded to grit. His magic though—that’s something he can’t lose.

“What?” Eliot says hoarsely. Time lags, stretching out while he runs to catch up with himself. It takes far longer to muster than it used to, but he manages a reasonably careless response. “Well, with all the liver damage I’m probably not going to be hanging around that much longer anyway, so.” The twinge of nausea isn’t helping, but he gives an affected shrug. Not his best performance, but not half bad either.

“Ah, I see.” Ruiz gives Eliot a long look that makes something flinch inside him. “So, you’re happy to let your magic atrophy in the meantime, then?”

“I didn’t—are you serious right now? Of course you are. Fuck.” Eliot sinks imperceptibly into the soft back of the chair.

“I’m sorry, this is a lot, I know. I only want to impart the urgency of your condition. And, more importantly, I want you to have the best possible chance of preserving your magical ability. You’re a highly skilled magician, Eliot. I can’t imagine what a loss that would be.”

The shredded-up hunk of grit in his chest starts to vibrate.

Eliot closes his eyes delicately and breathes out. He’s sweating horribly, shirt sticking to his back. “This can’t be happening.”

“It’s hard for most magicians to hear, and I won’t lie—you’ve got a long road ahead of you.”

“Great,” he says, voice flat. “Just great.”

“Full recovery is possible; however, I don’t want to over-promise anything at such an early stage—your magic is extremely volatile, and the readings you’re giving off suggest that your body is beginning to suppress the surges, which is the last thing we want. That could get truly explosive.”

“Wait—readings?”

“That’s the bit you zero in on? Sure,” she says with a snort. “Again, you initialled right next to it—our admin should have gone over all of this with you?”

Oh, right. The intake form Margo’d bullied him into signing, and the poor, sweet-looking young woman who’d tried her best to address her spiel to Eliot at first, then gradually wavered and begun to redirect her questions toward Margo, while he’d stared resolutely out of the window.

“I, uh, may not have been paying attention. Out of protest.”

“I see.” Her lips twitch again, and she takes a pair of chunky black-rimmed reading glasses from the top of her head to look at some kind of magically adapted tablet.

“Well, this room is warded against magical surges—any damage to the furnishings or structure will repair itself, so you don’t need to worry about that. More importantly, all staff members are fully protected from the physical and magical effects of any surges. And while you’re in this room, you’ve consented to readings of your ambient magic—we take something similar to a resting heart, and then surges are recorded against those baselines. Is any of this a problem for you? I know you’ve agreed in writing, but it’s important that your consent is informed.”

He nods numbly. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Fine.”

“You can withdraw consent at any time, that’s important too.”

When he doesn’t respond, Ruiz flips the tablet to face him and carries on. “Okay, see these spikes here? Think of them as mini-surges, which you’ve managed to suppress. But it’s temporary—basically, it’s gotta go someplace, sometime.”

Eliot feels suddenly, horribly naked—except he loves being naked and doesn’t give a shit who sees him. This is genuinely exposing, nowhere to fucking hide from his own brain. An actual nightmare.

“I should never have come here.”

Ruiz sweeps right over that bit of melodrama and says, “Well, you are though, so you might as well tell me a bit about what’s led you here, however reluctantly.”

“Very, very reluctantly,” he emphasises, and then sighs, giving up his thin attempts at impassivity, since the fucking room itself can see right through him. Collapsing into the chair, he says, “It’s a long story.”

“It always is. Has something happened recently, that might have set your magic off?”

Eliot’s head swims. He can almost taste the magic crackling in his throat, but he’s probably imagining it. “I—I can’t talk about that.”

“All right. It seems like you’ve been a heavy drinker and used just about all of the substances in existence, mundane and magical alike. What made you stop recently?”

“Got possessed,” he says shortly. “Woke up. Seemed as good a time as any.”

Several cracks swerve deeply through the surface of the wooden table between them and Eliot swears.

“It’s not a problem,” Ruiz says evenly. “See?”

Sure enough, the cracks seal up. Like nothing ever happened.

“It is a fucking problem though,” Eliot says through gritted teeth. “Since I can’t reliably cast even the most basic spells. And sometimes even when I’m not casting—fucking hell. Mostly when I’m not casting. Let me guess, you want me to tell you about that too?”

“Obviously.” She smiles. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with. The possession seems important though. As does the timing of that last surge.”

Eliot remains silent, chest tight as a drum.

Ruiz studies him for a moment. “The primary method for managing magical surges is emotional honesty. With yourself, and with others. I can see how hard this is for you, and I’m not asking questions to be difficult. I only want to find a place where you feel like you can begin. Perhaps somewhere less emotive would be helpful?”

He nods vigorously.

“All right then. It’s different for everyone. Some people are happy to begin with their childhood—” Eliot twitches violently and she changes tack— “others might find it easier talking about their day or their week.”

“My day has been shitty, and so has my week.”

“Okay, I’m pretty sure you know what my next question is.”

“This is the worst,” he mutters, loud enough to be certain she catches it. “All right, fine. Margo made me come here, that’s one shitty thing.”

“Margo. She’s important to you. Tell me about her.”

Eliot gives a disjointed laugh. “Margo’s my… she’s everything.”

“When did you meet?”

“Brakebills. We were joined at the hip almost immediately, then at the trials we, ah. Bonded. For life.”

“What did you bond over?”

“Rising above the shit we came from—quite literal in my case—to become something better. We threw the best parties, went to all the best orgies. We were gloriously bitchy, utterly pretentious, stuck-up little twats and I loved every second of it.”

He sighs, short and heavy. “And we used to have emotional reticence down to an art form, but it looks like Margo’s left me in the dust on that one.”

“Oh?”

“She talked to someone.” Eliot presses his lips together. “It’s probably the only time Margo’s said anything that’s genuinely shocked me. A lot fucking changes when you wake up from being possessed, let me tell you… Hm, you know what, though? Margo’s a vicious bitch,” he says fondly. “She’s always been made of sturdier stuff than me—truly. So, if either of us were gonna crush it when it comes to this whole _feelings_ thing, I’d put my money on her.”

“I see.” She pauses a moment, visibly collecting her thoughts before continuing. “So, Margo obviously found therapy useful enough to recommend it.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Eliot settles for a simple, “Mm.”

“Was the possession part of the reason she suggested you come here?”

“Oh, there was a pretty comprehensive inventory of my issues, but yeah, it was up there,” he says, giving into the eye roll and then to the real question she’s asking.

“Okay, fine. There was this whole quest thing, right? Remember when magic was shut off? Yeah, that was kind of my—” Eliot loses his footing, caught in the stomach by how easily he’d almost referred to Quentin without thinking about it. “My, ah, friend. It was sort of his fault. Well, all of us, really. So that was the quest—to fix magic. Which we did, but.” He breathes out heavily. “The next bit’s my fault. I know you’re going to ask why, or try and convince me it isn’t, so I’ll tell you why it definitely is. I tried to kill the monster. I thought I was so fucking _clever_ , and he fucking _told_ me not to interfere. But I didn’t listen, thought I knew better, didn’t I? And the monster locked me up inside my own fucking mind and took my body on a mass killing spree and now— _fuck_.”

The arm of his chair is on fire, because of course it fucking is. He bats at it lamely for a few seconds before giving up. Ruiz ignores it entirely and gets right to the heart of the matter. “Who told you not to interfere?”

He gives her a sour look. “Quentin, all right? Quentin told me not to, but I did it anyway, and he did his big damn hero thing and now he’s dead. Okay? Is that what you wanted?”

There’s a brash splintering crack as the ceiling caves in. Unlike Eliot whose shoulders jerk, Ruiz remains utterly unperturbed, even as the fire begins to snap at the walls, the cool grey paint searing in oily little bubbles.

“You’re a go big or go home kinda guy, huh?” Her eyes flick up to the cavern in the ceiling and she flashes him a small smile, and damnit, but Eliot finds himself wanting to return it. He doesn’t though, because he’s determined not to like her. Except it might already be too late for that. Fucking Margo, making him come here.

“We’re making progress already,” Ruiz says. “From what I’ve seen, I can confirm it’s a case of both intense emotion and extreme repressed emotion that’s causing your magic to surge. Quentin’s death is a major trigger, as is the guilt you feel regarding the events that led there. But there’s more to it, as this is clearly a long-standing pattern of repression.”

“What a delightfully rich tapestry you weave,” Eliot says, doing his best to sound unaffected, while knowing that he’s failing utterly.

“Well, technically you’re the one behind the loom,” she points out, and no, he definitely doesn’t fucking like her.

Ruiz leans forward slightly, pushing her glasses back on top of her head, sweeping her dark bangs back with them. “Can I ask you something? We’ve only just over five minutes left, you’ll be glad to hear, and you can say no if you like.”

Eliot huffs gently, at what is admittedly very good news, and waves at her to go ahead.

“I want to ask if this sounds right to you. I’m wondering if shame is something that’s been a big part of your life, if maybe you’ve felt ashamed for a very long time. This might be about something you’ve done or feel you’ve done, or perhaps most likely, a shame that cuts to the very core of who you are.”

Jesus Christ, even hearing the word _shame_ is—too much. It’s too fucking much. His shoulders twitch, a tight band contracting around his chest. He’d just been thinking that maybe he could handle this, perhaps therapy wasn’t going to be so bad, but now, the very ground beneath him feels like it might give way. And fuck, it really might. He glances down to make sure. Well, the floor is still intact, but the ceiling is gonna take a while to put back together, even with magic, and the flames are going strong, nearly at the halfway mark up the wall.

The visual manifestation of his stupid fucking feelings is getting a little tiresome, honestly.

“All right,” she says quietly, evidently having gotten her answer. “I think I can help you, Eliot.”

“Goody,” he mutters. And then, “Sorry.”

“That’s quite all right. I know how little you want to be here, and I’m not offended.” She straightens up, tapping a few times on the tablet. “Now, I don’t want to overwhelm you, but given the urgency of your situation, ideally I’d like to see you twice a week for the next month. We can assess then if your condition is improving and discuss other potential therapies. We’ll also be working on your magical control. How does that sound?”

Fucking awful, is how it sounds.

“Ugh,” says Eliot, face twisting. “Fine.”

*

Alice makes a deal. There’s no other choice, really, and the deal isn’t all that bad. Not for what she’s potentially getting in return. She clutches the sheaf of papers, hands shaking with the enormity of what it could mean.

When she’d gone back to the Mirror Realm, the terrible place where it happened, Alice hadn’t allowed herself to believe she’d make it this far. But she’d needed to see it for herself. That he was really gone. And then, well. It was a small thing, really. Any other magician might’ve missed it, but Alice isn’t any other magician. She was a Niffin, and she’d known in her bones the sharp-slick taste of residual magic. At first, she’d rationalised that it didn’t mean anything, even as her heart lurched with the truth of it. Because of course it meant something. It’d been months, for one.

(Six months. Without Quentin. Alice had once thought the world couldn’t possibly get any darker. She’d been so very wrong.)

Most importantly, there shouldn’t have been any traces of magic at all. It’s the Mirror Realm, after all. Then she’d seen it for herself through a pale green shard of specially tempered glass—shimmering thinly, barely detectable. But it was there.

Her stomach had turned when she realised where she needed to go next. The Library had been monitoring magic. And Quentin’s tiny spell had caused a blast so huge, there was no way they didn’t have readings of it.

The library certainly did have readings; they had complicated graphs and charts, not only documenting Quentin’s death but the months that followed. It’d taken some wrangling to get them, but those readings could change everything.

Because Eliot’s right—she _is_ a cocky little bitch, and it’s her goddamn arrogance that’s going to bring Quentin back. Maybe then Eliot’ll stop brooding and sulking about like a pissy little rain cloud.

Smoothing her skirt down, Alice gets a hold of herself. Even if it doesn’t work out—and Alice can barely contemplate it, her chest clenching in denial—she’s negotiated far better terms of contract than Penny had signed, and besides, it’s worth it.

Alice allows herself to tremble for a moment before tightening her resolve, swallowing hard. She owes Quentin, after all, and now she can repay him in kind.

(See how he likes it, being shoved back into his body without consent.)

God, she misses him so fucking much.

She’ll worry about the library later. For now, Alice sets her mind to the monumental task ahead. Much to her displeasure, she’s going to need the whole gang on board.

(Maybe now they’ll finally forgive her for those goddamn keys.)

Before she can second guess herself—something Alice finds herself doing a lot of, these days—she taps out a group message to everyone except Margo, who, later that day, startles as a hefty white rabbit drops into her lap in the middle of a council meeting. “Need you,” it says gruffly. And another by her feet, long-haired and grey-soft.

“It’s about Q.”

*

After six sessions with Ruiz, Eliot’s resistance is, if anything, increasing. Talking about the events themselves is fine—Eliot quips and deadpans his way through the basic facts of his dad’s contempt for him, the joys of growing up an outcast at home and at school, that he’d never felt safe anywhere until Brakebills and then, whoops, look what happened. He went and killed his boyfriend, that’s what fucking happened. But when it comes to discussing how he feels about any of it, Eliot shuts down, avoids, equivocates. The worse the memory, the more he makes light of it. Even he can see it’s a classic defence mechanism. The thing is, it’d always worked before. But the mechanism that’d once protected him has shattered somewhere along the way and is clearly no longer functioning. Much like Eliot himself. If anything, it’s making things worse. He can see that too. He just doesn’t know what to do about it.

_If I’m braver—_

Eliot wants to be braver. But he’s not.

Still, his stupid magical outbursts are beyond ridiculous, and so, when Laura suggested a spell to make him more receptive to the therapeutic process, he’d cautiously agreed. He’s not sure he wants to be more receptive, honestly. But he can’t go on like this.

And so here they are.

“All right,” Laura says. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun today, loose bangs framing her face. “I know we talked about this informally, but before we begin, I’m professionally obliged to advise you of the potential risks and side effects.”

“Go on then, get the exposition out of the way.”

She gives him a quick smile. “I’ll try to keep it brief. You’ve been experiencing two types of magical surges. These are intensity surges and avoidant surges—simply put, because they’re caused by intense repressed emotion and the avoidance of repressed emotion. All familiar, yes?” She pauses to drain the dregs of her coffee mug, then turns back to the matter at hand.

“Okay, the spell is designed to help you face the emotions you’re repressing, which is good for your long-term recovery. However, in the short term, it can increase intensity surges as more feelings start to come to the surface. This should even out, but it’s risky, and your magic might be affected for anywhere between a couple of days and a couple of weeks.”

“So, I drink it and then we just… talk?”

“You drink, and then put the eye mask on. You can leave it on for the duration, or, take it off once you’ve acclimatised to the effects of the potion—about ten minutes, usually.”

“The physical stuff, right.” Eliot has been so fixated on the talking part, he’d forgotten what Laura had mentioned about mild discomfort or unusual sensory responses that might happen during and after the session.

With no small amount of trepidation, Eliot takes the small conical potion bottle she passes him. He takes a long moment to examine the bottle more closely. Avoiding. Equivocating.

He _wants_ to be braver. Or he did, once. Burning hot dread stings his throat as he yanks out the stopper and swallows the pale orange shimmer in one mouthful.

Fuck.

A few minutes later, eye mask securely in place, Eliot notices an odd sensation, as though a pair of strong, smooth hands are gliding coolly from his shoulders down over his chest. It’s certainly unusual, though not unpleasant.

“I don’t think it’s working?” he says after a while. “Laura?”

“I’m here. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t feel anything much. What’s up with this? I thought it’d all just sort of… happen.”

“Sometimes it does, but it’s different for everyone. We can guide the process a little more, if you’d like?”

“I mean,” Eliot says, lips twisting into an unhappy smile. “It’s not like we don’t know what I’m avoiding, right? Quentin or the monster, dealer’s choice.”

“You’re the dealer, Eliot. Where would you like to start?”

“I don’t really…” The cooling sensation strokes delicately over his ribs, slowly loosening the knots in his chest. “I fucking miss him. I don’t know why that’s so hard for me to admit, but I really miss him. I mean, of course I do, right? I don’t get why it feels like such a big deal.”

“Why do you think?”

Eliot’s surprised to find he knows the answer, and even more surprisingly, it’s simple enough to say aloud, flowing like a tap’s been switched on somewhere in his brain.

“Because I have too much grief for other people to understand. Margo doesn’t get it. She thinks—god. She can be such an asshole sometimes.” Eliot loves that about her, obviously, but right now he can’t quite access the deep fondness that would usually inflect those words. “Margo thinks I had a crush and can’t get over it. That what she felt for him was anything close to—”

Eliot takes a deep, unsteady breath. Even now, with the cool hands soft and strong and grounding—he’s resisting. But he doesn’t—

He doesn’t _have_ to. 

So wholly committed to stamping out even the mere possibility of his own happiness, Eliot has invested a substantial amount of energy into denying or minimising his feelings, slotting them away like bricks becoming a wall. 

But there’s another way. There’s a chance here— 

God, he’s been so—

_You were looking after yourself as best you could._

The thought flows from someplace deep, and sounds not entirely unlike Eliot himself. It’s kinder, though, more compassionate than anything he’s used to hearing. His chin quivers, lips pressed together. There are moments of grace within him; Eliot can see this now. 

There’s a chance here. A real chance—to come to terms with himself. Maybe even forgive himself. 

“What was your relationship with Quentin like?”

He laughs, startled. “That’s a more complicated question than you know. And I don’t mean in a Facebook status sense. I mean an impossible alternate timeline that neither of us should’ve been able to even remember. But we did.”

There’s a long pause. “I haven’t told anyone this,” Eliot says, a sharp ache running the length of his spine. He crosses an ankle over one knee and then back to the floor again. Dizzy. Restless. There’s so much inside him, and for once, it feels like it might be safe to let it go. “I barely know how to.”

“Would you like to tell me now?”

“I want to get better,” Eliot admits. “I want things to be less broken.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that, hadn’t even had the chance to think it.

“I want that for you too, Eliot.”

“God, it’s so utterly pedestrian,” he says, brain skipping. “All of this. Come on. I should be able to put it behind me, but I can’t. So what if my dad never loved me? Loads of people have crappy childhoods.”

“Do you see what’s happening?” Laura asks, and he does. He’s avoiding talking about Q, and so, in halting fragments over the next twenty minutes or so, Eliot explains about the time key, the mosaic, the quest. 

“Let’s just say I was a teensy bit overwhelmed by having an entire lifetime shoved into my brain, and when Quentin asked if I wanted to give things a try, I shot him down in the most awful, dismissive way possible. I couldn’t have shoved him away any harder.”

Eliot cringes as he recounts what he’d said to Quentin in the throne room that day. 

“And then we slept together and I—I ran out on him. Fuck. I was _such_ a dick to him. He didn’t deserve that. The next few times we saw each other were just… me being an asshole, again. We argued. It was so pointless.”

An abrupt self-consciousness prickles through him. Eliot takes the mask off. “I can’t, this is…”

Hands sweating in his lap, he looks at her fiercely. “I can’t get over what I did. And I went through hell thinking I’d get the chance to make it right with him and then he was gone.”

There’s a quiet moment while Laura takes this in.

“Why did you say those things to Quentin?”

Eliot laughs unpleasantly. “You’ve got the measure of me by now, haven’t you? Surely you can guess.”

“Mm, probably,” she says, her voice deliberately mild in a way that irritates the fuck out of him.

“But you want me to say it. Well, shit.” He glares up at the ceiling. “I was scared, obviously. So, when he asked me if I wanted to… I shut it down. It was so easy. I knew exactly what to say and how to say it.”

“What were you scared of?”

“I don’t—” Eliot sits forward, hands clenching. “I don’t know, or I can’t put it into words. I just couldn’t reconcile those memories with who I actually was. The person sitting there in that throne room wasn’t in any shape to be having a relationship with Quentin.”

“And what about you, sat here now?”

Eliot’s jaw clamps down. The question seems almost unbearably cruel.

“It hardly matters now, does it?” he says, pleased to find he’s still capable of injecting an excoriating level of acid into his tone. 

“Of course it does,” Laura says, and he wishes she’d stop being so kind. He doesn’t deserve it. Or maybe—

Eliot inhales deeply, chest suddenly light and uncluttered in a way he can’t remember feeling before, like air is finally reaching his lungs for the first time in years, maybe ever. It’s a distinctly unsettling sensation.

Maybe it does matter. Maybe what he wants is—

The lightness in his chest gives way to a warm restless fluster; his muscles tender and longing, an immobilising lethargy pinning him to the chair.

“You said nobody else knows about this?”

He shakes his head slowly, overcome.

“Holding something in, especially something as significant as this, it can have profound effects on our relationships with other people and on our own sense of self,” says Laura.

Eliot thinks about how true this really is.

He tips his head back, the chair is soft, Quentin is dead.

A slow silence descends. See, the thing about therapy is that he’d expected the talking to be awful, and boy was he right about that. But Eliot couldn’t have predicted how much he’d hate these excruciating games of chicken. There’s no logic to them, not that he can tell. Most often, he breaks first, while occasionally Laura will eventually intervene. In the interim, the piercing silence drills a well inside him where all the feelings he’s tried to drown creep to the surface like long-dead bodies sealed in heavy black plastic—and now, it’s his job to peel back the layers, to uncover the bloat and rot underneath.

Eyes stinging, Eliot breathes in deeply as the cooling touch returns, lightly massaging his shoulders, slipping over the curve of his neck. It feels—really fucking good. Nobody has touched him like this in such a long time. Quentin used to—no. Quentin has never touched him like this. Maybe he would have. If Eliot had given him the chance.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. No one knows about the other timeline, or whatever it was. Alice gets to be the grieving widow, and I can’t tell anyone what happened.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I don’t know, what’s the point?” That’s not the right answer, but—

Whenever Eliot’s tried to find the words to make sense of his shitty life, he’s always regretted it. Words can’t fix anything. All you can do is push the darkness down, try not to stray too far from the surface of things. Because if you go too deep, it’s dangerous; that’s how hearts get swallowed whole. But he’s been so stupid. Trying to follow a nebulous set of rules cut so deep he can’t remember who wielded the knife— _if you don’t care then you can’t get hurt_. Trying to glue his broken pieces back together so his embarrassingly clichéd secrets don’t spill through the cracks— _I just want to be loved_. So fucking stupid. Because he followed all the rules, and he sealed up the cracks, but all he ended up doing was breaking his own heart.

And here, now, the banal truth of him bursts out, wanting only to be known.

“What does it mean that nobody I care about knows about this hugely significant part of my life? That nobody who cared about Quentin is mourning the—” Eliot looks at her intently, a reckless current of energy flowing in his veins. He’s expecting to find pity or concern, but her face is neutral. Not blank, that’s not quite right. More like a universal kindness that’s projecting outward and just so happens to encompass him.

His rising desperation turns the tide into defiance, chin tilting as he says it. “Nobody else is mourning the Quentin who loved me.”

A soft palm quiets the ache of his fucked up heart.

“Your friends are missing an important part of both your lives.”

“Maybe it didn’t really happen to us, but he did feel that way once. Or some version of him did.” His voice breaks apart. “And that matters.”

“Well, perhaps your relationship effectively happened to two other versions of you,” Laura says. “But you and Quentin remembered it. And that makes it a part of you both regardless.”

“Yes,” says Eliot, seizing on the first part of her sentence and sitting up, alight with vindication. “Thank you, god. That’s exactly how I felt about it—like it happened to someone else. But Q, he thought it was _us_. Like we could just pick up where they left off and I—it was just too much.”

Laura’s mouth purses; it’s clear she’s considering her words, something Eliot has come to appreciate about her over the past few weeks.

“I think that’s a perfectly understandable response to an emotionally complex, and frankly, unprecedented phenomenon.”

Elio gives a short, sharp bark of laughter. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Maybe it’s understandable that I freaked out, but I should have told him. I shouldn’t have lied.”

“What do you wish you’d said to Quentin?”

Eliot stares at her, heart beating a frantic pulse. “I can’t—”

“It’s okay,” she says, so fucking gently that it makes his skin crawl. “Take your time.”

His entire body feels like it’s vibrating. “I don’t know what I could possibly have said that would have articulated how scared I was. I didn’t even know. Or, no. I did. God, I’m lying to myself even now. I knew what I was doing. I fucking knew.”

“When Quentin asked you, did you want to say yes?”

Eliot covers his face with his hands. “I don’t know. At the time—I don’t know. Now, I’d give anything to tell him yes. But it just—I couldn’t. I can’t imagine a world where I could’ve said…”

“Why not?” Her deep voice is the fresh, cool breeze of springtime; it unfurls the tangle of loathing Eliot’s chest. He uncovers his face. Looks at her. It’s safe here. He can say it.

“I was scared, fucking petrified of—of him. Even the possibility of actually being—” Eliot’s chest seizes, then settles.

He can say it. 

“Loved.”

Laura’s eyes drop, as though she knows he can’t bear to be seen by her at this moment. “Why are you afraid of being loved?”

Jesus, fuck. Who asks questions like that?

Eliot fumbles at the collar of his shirt, before catching himself and bringing his hands down to rest on his knees.

“I—”

He looks at Laura, hoping she’ll take pity this time and just fucking tell him the answer already. Everyone who comes here and sits in this same chair has a different brand, sure, but in the end, aren’t they all just treading the same worn-out paths of misery and pain? Isn’t there a formula for this by now?

A spike of anger pulses in his chest, and not for the first time. Because she _knows_ , she must know the answer. And Eliot doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say.

He knows he’s not fundamentally _unlovable_ or some other gross word he’ll certainly never say out loud. And it’s not that he thinks he’s _unworthy_ of love, Quentin’s or otherwise. It’s just—

All the parts of himself he’s tried to squash or sever, the malignancy at his core that can’t be expunged. It’s _fucking fag_ and _were you blacked out when we met?_ It’s the time Logan Kinnear spat on him and Eliot had just sat there, pinned to his seat as the school bus staggered around the corner, the laughter of half the boys in his class burning in his chest, their hatred of him dripping down the back of his neck and seeping into his skin where it’s remained ever since. It’s the humiliation of believing that a guy like Mike could’ve loved him, how quickly he’d fallen for the act, and how much he’d _wanted_ , perhaps not even Mike himself, not truly, but the visceral bone-deep longing for _someone_ to want him back. 

(And then someone finally did. But he fucked it up.)

It’s everything in between, and everything since. But how the hell is he meant to _say_ any of this? It all gets jumbled in his mind, and his skin gets tighter and tighter and—

He closes his eyes. “I don’t know why. But I tried all those shitty memories of the shitty things I’ve done and the one thing I couldn’t bear to think about was someone telling me he—” Eliot breaks off, afraid he’ll start crying, then realises it’s too late.

“But also? He was being really intense about it.” Unexpected laughter bursts from his throat. “Q was like that though,” he says, clasping his hands together, letting the tears come. “He was so fucking intense. About everything. It was—” He looks at Laura; she’s steady as the earth, grounding. He _has_ to—if he can’t say it to her, then how the hell is he ever going to move past this?

His stomach lurches at the thought of moving on from Quentin. He’s not sure it’s possible, if that’s something he even wants.

“I loved him,” Eliot says hoarsely. “I loved him so goddamn much and I never got to tell him.”

He watches Laura grips the armrest of her chair with both hands, her silver rings glinting in the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the open blinds.

“How does it feel to say it out loud?”

“Unreal.” He swallows thickly. Loving Quentin is like a dream, the kind that’s so sharp and clear— _he tastes like sweet plum wine, lips stained red, eyes dark and wanting_ —until you reach out and the whole thing disintegrates. 

The room is off-kilter, or probably that’s just Eliot. “I’ve left it too long to tell anyone about those memories. And what we had, it doesn’t seem like something that really happened. It never did. It never felt like something I could really have.”

“You loved each other,” Laura says. “It’s very real, and it’s very important.”

He would never have guessed that hearing this would be so significant, that having another person acknowledge the truth would make it feel more like a reality. Someone else knows, finally. He hadn’t realised how much he needed that.

“It’s my biggest—regret doesn’t even begin to cover it. And I’ve done some monumentally shitty things. When I think of what we could’ve had… I never even got to properly see him again.”

“I can’t imagine how painful that must be.”

It really is. He’d never normally admit it, but he’s already given so much, and so he agrees. There’s a strength in it that he would never have expected to find.

Everything he’s said makes him feel queasy with the exposure of it. A wall has crumbled, his armour stripped away. Oddly, he doesn’t especially want it back. That’ll change, he suspects, but for now, the mild embarrassment of his sincerity sits uncomfortably alongside a woozy sort of relief at having finally been honest with someone.

“How does it feel, now you’ve told me?”

“It really fucking hurts. But it’s better, in a way. Better than I thought it would be.” He swallows the fear in his throat. A strange sort of peace emerges in its place. “I don’t know how to live with any of this.”

“I know,” Laura says. “I’ll do my best to help you find a way.”

*

The aftermath of the spell is exhausting. Despite Laura’s warning, Eliot hadn’t been prepared for the sheer level of burnout that eclipses him. He spends almost an entire week dozing on the penthouse couch, waking to the background hum of Michael Scott’s intense social awkwardness and eating whatever the fuck Josh or Kady put in front of him. After a break to recuperate, his sessions with Laura continue as usual, and Eliot sinks further into the hopeless malaise he’s been mired in since Quentin died. 

He continues to be worse than useless when it comes to Fillory, only a nominal member of the council at this point, since he doesn’t really do anything. That’s got to change. Something has to. He’ll talk to Margo about it, when he stops yawning and taking impromptu naps throughout the day.

Therapy is hard. It’s humiliating and frustrating and it’s taking everything he’s got. All this murky shit is dredging up from the depths, shit that should’ve stayed sunk, in his opinion. And what the fuck is he meant to do with it now, where does it all go?

Every wall he built that never even kept him all that safe to begin with is being slowly demolished. The more Eliot manages to talk—really talk—the less glitchy and fucked up his magic gets. Great. But what’s the point? What is he supposed to _do_ with this nebulous notion, this ‘feeling better’ he’s ostensibly working towards?

Because let’s face the fucking facts. It doesn’t matter how much healing and talking and processing he does. At the end of it all, Quentin’s still dead.

*

Another side effect of therapy is that Eliot starts dreaming about Quentin. In the dreams, it goes something like this:

They’re in the throne room, and Eliot’s smirking his awful smirk.

Quentin, fucking Quentin’s got that look in his eye, the one that could devour him, the one that’ll ruin him. He thinks Eliot’s a king, a brave man, a good father.

“Why the fuck not?”

I’ll tell you why, Eliot doesn’t say. It’s because I’m afraid, and I’m afraid because if I let you take a bite you might not like what you taste. Do you like rotten fruit, Quentin? Do you like it when the skin bruises brown and the cracks show the fester underneath?

*

They’re running and running and running, a forest. A sickening blur of green and dirt, so much fucking dirt; Eliot can’t stomach the loam of it. Wait, that’s not right—the breath slams out of him, he’s slammed, hard, against a solid oak tree. He catches up with himself: Eliot was running, and Quentin was chasing him. Quentin’s caught him, he’s got Eliot backed up right where he wants to be; Quentin’s kissing him and kissing him, and Eliot’s so ready, he’s ready to be swallowed whole and Quentin’s fist plunging into his chest is the best fucking feeling in the world—he can’t get enough of it. He squirms and groans, hips searching, endless. 

Quentin steps back. Blood-spattered, empty handed.

“Oh,” he says, kind-eyed. “I guess there’s nothing here.” 

Eliot seals up the pitted hollow and watches him go.

*

They’re laughing so hard it hurts, neither of them can remember how they ended up rolling around on the floor like this; Eliot can’t catch his breath—that rare grin splits Quentin’s face open and gleaming like a stone fruit heart and Eliot can’t believe he’s been granted a taste of the fleshy raw perfect centre of him—Eliot can’t breathe, coughing and coughing; Quentin keeps laughing while Eliot spits fury, spits bile, spits decades of fine-tuned self-loathing onto the tiles between them, seeping into the cracks, where they’ll forever be stained by his shame.

*

They’re in the throne room and Eliot’s smirking his awful smirk. 

Quentin pins him with that look; the one that could ruin a better man. Eliot flirts with the notion for too long of a moment, thinks _I want you to wreck me, ruin me, save me._

They’re poised at the brink and if only he’d known that at the time, had known there was so much at stake, he could’ve—he would’ve—hmm, but that’s not quite right, is it?

Eliot’s always been good at running away, and he does it now (and again and again and again), gently extracting himself from the threat of Quentin’s gaze. 

Quentin walks away and Eliot’s relief thickens like cement, hardening into regret as he wonders if every other Eliot out there is as bone-achingly stupid as he is, if every Eliot and every Quentin are playing out these needless, endless tragedies that’d rival any of the greats.

*

Alice isn’t looking forward to this meeting.

But they deserve to know. And after what happened with the keys _(after you fucked up all of magic, you mean),_ Alice doesn’t want to plan things in secret anymore. Especially considering the library’s involvement. She’d never trusted them in the first place, but now she can’t trust her own instincts either. Alice truly had thought she was doing the right thing, but she’d got it so very wrong.

_(How do you know you’ve got it right this time? How do you know telling them will do any good?)_

Alice has never had much patience for small talk, so with a sharp breath, she dives straight in. “I found out something important about Quentin. He’s—I think we can—”

She snaps her mouth shut, annoyed with herself. Everything she’d planned to say is coming out all wrong and everyone’s looking at her expectantly, including Eliot. Sitting on the fringes by the door to the balcony, dressed head to toe in black like a parody of an eighteenth-century widow, even though it’s been months now. He’s probably still drinking too much and setting things on fire.

Alice clicks her mind back on track.

“That day in the Mirror Realm, Quentin’s mending spell,” she says. “When the spell repaired the portal to the Seam. It—it.” She breathes out slowly and carries on, words tripping in her haste. “It rebounded and hit Quentin.”

“Mm, thanks for the harrowing recap,” Margo says, drumming her blood-red nails on the kitchen counter-top, where she’s stood next to Josh and Kady, both crunching on chips, clearly unaware of the gravity of what Alice is about to say. “But could you snap to the point if you’ve got one? I’ve got a kingdom in political turmoil right now, and I seriously need to fuck some shit up.”

Alice’s preferred method of dealing with Margo when she’s like this is to ignore her, which works perfectly right now. She takes the time to rearrange her thoughts before continuing, taking the smallest of pleasures in Margo’s growing irritation.

“I think two things happened next. We know that the spell destroyed everything in its path—because that’s just what happens in the Mirror Realm.” Heart clamouring, Alice recites this as clinically as she can manage, willing herself not to go there, the utter devastation of that day never far from the surface, always threatening to drag her down.

“It happens because—” she remembers just in time that nobody ever wants to hear the details—“well, never mind that, but the second thing is. We—I think. There’s evidence to suggest that the spell repaired him again.”

“The _fuck_ are you talking about,” Margo asks fiercely. “You mean—” Margo swallows visibly, her eyes wide with disbelief, and Alice remembers that she does occasionally have feelings. “Is Quentin…?”

Nobody fails to notice Eliot’s head shoot up. His mouth opens, though he says nothing. Alice is about to carry on, when Penny interrupts.

“There’s more to it though, right? Or you wouldn’t be explaining all this shit.”

“Yes, of course there is.” Alice clamps her jaw shut, forcing down the contempt creeping up in her throat. 

“You said his body was repaired. Is he—” Everyone tries not to be conspicuous as they look at Eliot, who’s staring at Alice, eyes wild and desperate.

“It was—it _is_ ,” Alice says. “But it’s—”

“Let me guess—complicated?” Margo drawls.

Glaring, Alice says, “We think the rebounded spell is running in a loop. It’s comp—it’s repairing him, yeah. But then it’s destroying him again too.”

The atmosphere in the room is charged as they all take a moment to digest this. Kady jumps up from the wingback chair, wearing one of her trademark glowers. “And by ‘we,’ I’m assuming you mean those library motherfuckers?”

Alice nods stiffly.

“So, wait. He’s not dead?” Margo asks, with a slow glance at Eliot, who looks like he’s been stunned.

“Not exactly,” Alice says. “Not really. He isn’t staying dead long enough for the Underworld to keep him. Penny said—Penny Forty, that is—”

“You talked to Penny?”

Kady turns so abruptly from hard-faced bitch to looking so incredibly vulnerable that it jolts Alice into something like compassion, and then, just as quickly, guilt. Kady’s boyfriend isn’t ever coming back, after all.

“No, not directly. But he said Quentin _was_ in the Underworld for a while, that it was supposed to happen like this.”

“Bullshit,” spits Margo, slamming her hands on the table. “There’s no fucking way our friend was ‘supposed’ to die acting out some self-sacrificing heroic crap. We’ve all rewritten our books a hundred times by now. What makes Q’s death so fucking special it’s the one that’s gotta stick?”

Alice lets out a clipped little sigh, head jerking. “I don’t know, okay? It’s just what Penny said.”

“So, what the hell is actually happening with Quentin?” Kady unfolds her arms and sits back down, all nonchalance now the conversation no longer applies to her.

Penny refrains from rolling his eyes, though the sentiment remains ever-present in his demeanour. “I suppose this is where you ask us to save his sorry ass?”

“That’s the idea. I need more time to nail down the details,” Alice says, pushing her glasses up, more from the need to do something with her hands than anything else. “But I’ve got a theory that whatever’s happened—between the Mirror Realm, and the fact that the Underworld couldn’t hang onto him—I think there’s a chance—”

Eliot’s gaze cuts across the room. “What are you saying? He isn’t—was never really dead?”

Will no one let her finish a goddamn sentence? _(Of course they’ve got questions. Calm the fuck down.)_

In a heavily gritted tone, Alice says, “He _was_. And he is, over and over again. He’s just not _staying_ dead.” Her shoulders tighten reflexively with years of frustration at having to repeat herself.

Eliot is violently still. He stares at Alice, wordless. His hands begin to shake.

“Are you okay?” she asks, out of distraction, more than true concern, that is, until the large glass bubble lamp by the coffee table explodes.

Jagged shards spark into the air, raining down in a glittering wave.

Eliot staggers to the bathroom.

“Uh,” says Josh, voicing their collective alarm. Everyone tries to ignore the gruesome retching sounds emerging from the bathroom, as Margo interjects with her trademark brute force.

“So, what? Magic’s all janked up in the mirror world, it tears Q to shreds, but somehow a minor goddamn mending spell is able to stitch him up and stop him from properly dying?”

Alice gives a tight little nod, blood screaming while she waits for them all to catch up and parrot her own words back to her. Painfully slow, their little human minds scrabbling around in the dark. Even when they find a match, they fumble to light it. if they manage to get a spark going, they stands around stupidly for so long the flame burns out.

Penny frowns, leaning back into the couch, hands clasped over his chest. “What’s that, like, entropy or some shit?”

Jesus Christ. “No,” she grinds out. “Look, we don’t know why it’s happening, but the spell Quentin cast is still going in a closed loop.”

“So, Quentin’s stuck, and he’s looping between living and dying,” says Julia, who’s been silently listening to the entire exchange. She sits up a little straighter, eyes bright and determined as ever. “And I’m guessing there’s a limit on how long the loop can keep running?”

“Right.” Alice’s shoulders drop. “Exactly. Theoretically, a loop like this could be powered indefinitely, but you’d need an insane amount of juice for something like that, and the readings the library gave me clearly show that the power behind the spell won’t last much longer.”

Julia gives her an almost-smile, and Alice feels no small amount of relief. After Quentin’s death, Julia had been much kinder than Alice expected (or deserved), but they still aren’t exactly the best of friends. The two of them will be doing most of the heavy lifting, after all, and it’ll be a lot easier knowing Julia doesn’t hate her still.

_(Not like she doesn’t have every right.)_

“And the library just gave this to you?” Kady sneers, pushing her wild mane of hair back from her face.

Alice nods curtly.

“Out of the goodness of their hearts, _the library_ gave you this crucial information that could save one of our friends? And you _trust_ them?” says Kady with a bitter laugh, and Alice can’t exactly blame her. “We all know the library doesn’t offer fuck all without a heavy price. They’d want something big for this.” She looks at Alice, eyes narrowing.

They certainly had; the next twenty years of Alice’s life. But that’s none of Kady’s fucking business.

“Does it matter?” Alice says tightly, unwilling to give any more than she already has. “If it gets Q back?”

“And how exactly are you going to get him back?” Margo’s drawl sets Alice’s teeth on edge.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, how are you going to find out?”

“I don’t know, okay? I’ve told you everything I do know. Honestly.”

Penny shoots her a look that says _cut the shit, Alice_.

But she doesn’t fucking know. She’ll figure it out though, because _well, you are Alice Quinn_ , as Quentin would say. Funny how the things that’d irritated her about Quentin hadn’t just melted away after he died. She’d thought they would, and maybe they had at first, but now, it turns out she’s every bit the cold-hearted bitch they all think she is.

Kady crosses an ankle over her knee, her glare menacing. “Let’s say I believe that you don’t know. But the fucking library? Are you seriously telling me they don’t?”

It’s a fair question, albeit one she doesn’t have an answer for.

She’s saved by Eliot’s return from the bathroom, his eyeliner artfully smudged and his jaw firmly set. “Well, we need to do it fast, whatever it is.”

And everyone’s nodding and mm-yes-ing like Alice hasn’t just said this exact same thing. She resents Margo’s _you_ , putting it all on her shoulders just as much as she resents Eliot’s rallying _we_ , inserting himself and pretending this is a team effort.

Which of course it is, because sure, Alice’ll save Quentin, but at the end of the day, it’s Eliot who’s going to get him back. He won’t even mean to do it. It’s just how things are between those two and always have been, right from the start, Eliot always after his attention and Quentin so damn eager to give it.

And resenting that is just—fucking stupid. She’s not even sure what she wants from Quentin anymore, if anything, and it’s too soon to even think about things like this, but Alice can’t help it.

“Okay. We need more information. As a starting point, we know that the mending spell is doing all the work to put him back together, but it’s also doing, um, the opposite of that. What we don’t know is where Quentin actually is, or how to stop the loop without—well. I don’t know how we’re going to do any of this, is what I’m saying.”

“You can do it,” Eliot says from across the room. It’s a command, not an encouragement. His posture bolts upright, head high as he joins the group, though Alice notes his pallor, and that he still doesn’t really meet anyone’s eyes, not even Margo’s.

“Alice,” says Eliot, chin tilted coolly. “What do you need?”

Alice swallows her frustration, used to the taste by now. Because Eliot has spoken, and just like that, everyone’s in.

*

Alice has been thinking about it for a while now, but it’s only just starting to slot into place.

She’d spent so long pushing Quentin away and ignoring his hangdog looks, that downturn mouth, his needy little _Alice please_ and _can’t we just—just talk?_

When Alice hadn’t even known who the fuck she was anymore—still doesn’t, not really. Besides, Quentin had wanted _her_ , the old Alice. Who no longer existed. And could therefore no longer take care of poor Quentin’s little feelings. Or so she’d fucking thought. Her shoulders tighten as she remembers cheering him on with that goddamn flower. As if Quentin Coldwater was really the only person who loved Fillory. Quentin, who couldn’t get over the fact that his childhood fantasies didn’t quite live up to reality. But there she was, playing the supporting role in his story once again. And the one time he’d so nobly stepped aside and let someone else take charge of his stupid hero’s journey—well. Alice had died for it. And bringing her back had only made things worse.

Somewhere along the way, their dynamic had solidified into an odd sort of push and pull, where she felt as aggravated by Quentin as she was magnetized toward him. But Alice hadn’t realised how much she’d relied on his attention until it was so abruptly withdrawn. Until Quentin hated her.

She’d spent so long pushing him away that she ought to have been relieved when he finally did as she asked and stopped loving her. But by that point, Alice had been so churned up by guilt and spite that all she’d wanted, so badly, was Quentin’s forgiveness.

And all he’d wanted was to save Eliot.

Alice knows it’s more complicated than her brain’s making it out to be, but in her head, it goes like this:

_I’m Team Eliot._

_Eliot’s alive_.

 _I loved you_.

God, the flatness of his gaze when he’d said it.

And sure, they’d gotten back together for a hot second, but Quentin had been so hollowed out by the monster’s brutality by then. He’d basically been going through the motions; she just hadn’t seen it at the time.

(How had none of them seen it?)

While Alice had been desperately trying to save Quentin’s life and win back his trust, he’d only had eyes for Eliot.

What she doesn’t know is when or how it happened. When Quentin’s world shifted from _Alice please_ to _Eliot’s alive_. When Eliot had become the only thing Quentin could see, with everything and everyone else fading into the distance. Including her.

Deep down, Alice knows it’s not as simple as that. Quentin was never as simple as that, not by a long shot. Quentin loved her. And he loved Eliot too, that was plain as day.

She doesn’t know what happened and right now she doesn’t care. All Alice wants is to see Quentin again, so much that her chest aches with it.

*

“Did something happen between you and Quentin?”

Raising his eyebrows is the only visible reaction Eliot allows himself to have to this wholly unnerving question. Fucking hell, he has to find a way to hide from Alice at these loathsome parties he doesn’t know why he keeps showing up to, since all he does is smoke moodily in dark corners and go home early. Some sort of localized cloaking spell might do it. Not that his spellwork is up to the task right now, one more thing Eliot absolutely does not want to think about. 

“What, another trip down memory lane? Didn’t think you wanted the blow-by-blow, but hey, I’m up for swapping notes if you are.” Leaning back, he crosses one leg over his knee, casual as anything.

Alice makes a production out of rolling her eyes. “Cut the shit, Eliot.”

Well, Alice certainly isn’t drunk this time, and she’s not fucking around. He takes a slow sip of his drink—iced tea on the rocks, absolutely disgusting—and a long drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke until his throat burns. “Mm, so what are you on about now then?”

“You,” she says, sitting opposite him. “You’re grieving like a goddamn war widow. The rest of us have been trying to move on with our lives, and you’re still stuck.”

Eliot clasps his hands together tightly. “Grief is different for everyone. But thank you, Alice, for your concern. Really,” he adds. “It means _so_ much.”

“Stuck on Quentin.”

He sparks up another cigarette—with a muggle lighter, ignoring the sharp squint of Alice’s eyes and the question he knows she’s dying to ask. But she wants something else more, something Eliot’s not willing to give. Hell, even if he were, he wouldn’t begin to know how to tell her. Because if one time was bad enough, how would Alice feel if she finds out he’d spent fifty years fucking her boyfriend?

“If anyone’s stuck, I’d say it’s you. Since when does orchestrating an elaborate plot to bring someone back from the dead count as moving on with your life?”

“You forget that I know what it looks like,” she says, ignoring him entirely.

He’s fast losing patience for these little chats. “Just spit it the fuck out, would you, if you’ve something to say?”

“I know what it looks like when Quentin’s trying to save someone he loves. He would’ve done anything to save you, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Q would’ve done that for anyone,” Eliot says dismissively, heart strangled in his chest.

“True,” Alice concedes, tapping her nails on the glass-topped table. “But he did it for you because he loved you. Because he couldn’t do anything _but_ save you. I know what that’s like too, remember? To have Quentin love you and look at you like you’re his entire world. He looked at you that way. Even when you were—when it was the monster.”

*

Alice watches carefully as Eliot’s indifferent façade shatters, oh-so-briefly. Just as he repairs the cracks in his armour and smooths the mask back into place, the glass of whisky dangling casually between his thumb and forefinger shatters for real.

Eliot, stricken, scrambles to his feet, wiping erratically at the mess of shards. “Jesus fucking shit,” he mutters, examining the streak of blood across his palm.

“What—” Alice starts to ask, and then thinks better of it. Something weird’s going on with Eliot, that’s for sure. She gestures vaguely toward him without really thinking about, and the mess of blood, whisky and broken glass is gone.

“Right,” Eliot says shakily. “Right, yeah. Thanks.”

Christ, how wasted is he? Not that she can talk. Not after… Her cheeks heat with embarrassment at her behaviour that night. It makes her irritation slip, and Alice softens, as much as she’s able to these days. “Look, I didn’t come over here to pick a fight with you. And I’m—I’m sorry. About last time. And about whatever it was. That happened between you and Q.”

“Nothing—” Eliot starts and immediately clams up at Alice’s raised eyebrow. She’s expecting him to bolt at any moment, but to her surprise, he sits back down, stiffly, and says, more tentatively than Alice is used to from him, “I—I suppose I don’t want to fight either.”

Something begins to unfurl in her chest. “Look, what I said before… I mean, I guess you were partly right in a way, but not like you think. It didn’t bother me because you’re, um. A guy. It honestly wasn’t that. I was just—it was the way you were together. There was obviously nothing between Q and Margo, but you two? God, do you even know how you would look at each other sometimes?” She stares down at the table, humiliation clawing hotly at her throat. “I was jealous, okay?”

To his credit, Eliot doesn’t try again to persuade her that no, really, we were just friends or some bullshit. “I was jealous of you, too,” he admits, and she can see what it’s costing him, the way his hands clench as he says it, eyes fluttering closed for a moment like he wishes he could take it back.

“You know,” Alice says, to fill the silence, and because she has nobody else to say this to. “Everything he did to save me, and I wasn’t even grateful. I hated him for it. Part of me still hates him for what he did to me. And now I just fucking miss him, and I hate him for that too.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, voice hanging heavy in the air between them. “I kinda hate him for that. Except—”

“Except you don’t. I know.”

“Do you really think you can bring him back?” Eliot asks in that casually precise way that means he cares very much about the answer but would rather die than admit it.

“Believe me, I wouldn’t have braved the lion’s den if I wasn’t certain. Mostly certain. I mean, I have no clue how we’re going to pull it off, and if it’s anything like any of the other plans we’ve come up with, it could get…”

“Messy as fuck? Full-on batshit post-apocalyptic death trap?”

“Something like that,” she says with a wry smile.

“Listen,” Eliot says, grimacing. “I’m sorry too. Really.”

Alice snorts. “That was pretty painful for you, huh?”

“Deeply. Like, agonizingly. But seriously. I, uh. I mean it.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe you’ll trust this cocky little bitch, after all,” she says, mouth twitching.

Eliot’s bark of laughter comes out like he’s surprised by the force of it, and Alice gives a proper smile now too. It’s—nice. It feels like her face had almost forgotten how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@stormscoming](https://stormscoming.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The next day, when Laura calls him through to the bright little room where he grudgingly spills his guts twice a week, Eliot forgoes the usual niceties and cuts straight to it before he’s even sat down._
> 
> _“I need—shit.” He drags in a harsh breath. “I need to do a spell. It’s really fucking important, okay? I can’t fuck it up. I can’t. I need you to help me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there are any major content notes for this chapter. Thanks to [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick) and [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi) for betaing <3

Alice bursts into the penthouse, breathless from a morning spent flitting around the Library stacks from one obscure footnote to the next. To say that research has stalled is putting it mildly. They’ve been stuck for a good few weeks now. But finally, _finally_ ; Alice has a lead.

“I think I know where he is.”

Julia leaps to her feet, long curls trailing behind her. “Where? What’ve you found?”

“It was what you said, actually, about Quentin being stuck between life and death. It reminded me of something I heard as a Niffin. I only have a tiny fragment of a memory, but I managed to find something.” Alice sets her bag down by one of the stools in the kitchen, accepting a glass of water gratefully. “Thanks.” She directs a small smile at Julia and then gets straight to it. “I think he might be in a place called the between-world.”

Julia’s eyes narrow in thought as she takes a seat opposite her. “A world, uh, between worlds? Wait, but isn’t that just the Seam?”

“The Seam isn’t a _world_ , not exactly, it’s—”

“Right, the space between this world and the anti-verse,” Julia fills in. “Of course.”

“Yes. Quentin said the emissary to the Old Gods told him that the Seam leaked and that’s how the Mirror Realm was created in the first place.”

“Okay,” says Julia, twirling a long strand of hair around her index finger. “So, what’s the between-world? How do we get there?”

“We don’t.” Alice frowns. “This is where it gets… complicated.”

They look at each other for a long moment before Julia’s lips twitch and suddenly they’re both cracking up, bordering on delirious with laughter. It’s like a pressure valve is slowly releasing something Alice hadn’t even known she was holding.

“Julia,” Alice says, before she can stop herself. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, for what I did, and what you lost because of me.”

“I know.” Julia smiles warmly, far more so than Alice deserves. “But thank you for saying it. And for everything you’re doing to save Quentin. I wouldn’t have even thought… I still can’t quite believe it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Alice says. “When I saw the traces of his spell in the Mirror Realm, I thought I was crazy.”

“Crazy is what we do best, right?”

Voice fraught with emotion, Alice agrees. “Does seem to be our M.O.” She gives Julia a shaky smile. “Anyway. We can’t go to the between-world, not physically. It’s not a place with a corporeal presence like ours or most other worlds.”

“What does that mean?”

Alice shakes her head. “Hard to say, honestly. Here, look.” She unfolds a thin sheet of paper and Julia recites the roughly copied paragraph.

“The between-world is a space for in-between things. Objects, entities and ephemera that are not one or the other, sometimes both, or neither. Things which cannot find a home in their own lands, things which cannot find a place in their own home.”

“Very poetic,” Julia finishes. “But not super specific on the details.”

“That’s the only direct reference to the between-world and it’s from a fifteenth-century text of no known origin. All other probable references suggest it’s a space of indecision and unrest.”

“Sounds like a fun vacation spot,” says Julia with a wry smile. “Okay, indecision and unrest. Like… ghosts?”

Alice chews on her lip. “Not exactly. Ghosts exist between the worlds they originate from and the Underworld. So, spirits get trapped, but they do have someplace to go. This is different. The Underworld couldn’t hold onto him and he’s not in the Mirror Realm either—maybe because of the magical energy? I don’t know. But whatever’s left of Quentin has no place to go.”

“Well, it’s definitely the best lead we’ve had yet,” Julia says, a crisp undercurrent of hope in her tone. “But if we can’t actually go there… How are we going to get Quentin out in one piece?”

*

They call an early morning meeting at the penthouse the next day. Alice makes her way downstairs with a jaw-cracking yawn just as Eliot, Margo and Josh are coming in through the clock. Julia, Kady and Penny are already assembled around the marble table, making what looks like mildly awkward small talk, and tearing into the coffee and pastries Julia must’ve picked up from the new bakery that’s just opened up down the block.

Grabbing a croissant, Alice joins Julia where she’s sat cross-legged on the couch. Once everyone’s settled, all eyes turn expectantly toward the two of them, and Julia doesn’t waste any time getting started.

“Okay guys, we have a theory about where Quentin might be, but we still can’t figure out what’s actually causing the spell to loop, or how to stop it. There’s something weird about the casting, and the wonky Mirror Realm circumstances don’t explain it. But.” Julia casts a quick glance at Alice, who nods in what she hopes is a reassuring manner. “We think we can write a spell to incept Q and find out more.”

It says a lot about their group that no one even blinks at this. Well, apart from Eliot, who looks incredibly pale, leaning into Margo on their corner of the sectional, the two of them curled around each other like extremely fashionable cats.

Julia carries on, explaining about the between-world and the added complication of Quentin’s lack of corporeal form, before Alice takes over.

“Penny, can you open up a conduit to another world?”

Given Penny’s track record of brave-slash-stupid heroics, it was fairly likely he’d agree regardless of who posed the question, but Julia had been understandably reticent to ask. She hadn’t gone into much detail, but Julia had broken up with Penny a few months ago and although they’ve remained friends, she thought it’d be better coming from Alice. Apparently Penny had taken the breakup pretty hard, though Alice hasn’t really noticed him behaving any differently. In fairness, she’s hardly the best at reading people, and Penny doesn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve. 

Or maybe Alice hadn’t been looking before. Now, she notices that Penny’s taken the chair directly opposite Julia and can’t seem to stop himself from leaning toward her every time she speaks, his gaze heavy. It reminds Alice of the way Quentin had once been so attuned to her presence, his entire body alert to everything she said or did. It’d been exhausting at the time, but even more annoyingly, she’d missed his attention once it was gone.

Penny folds his arms. “That’s some serious shit,” he says, and Alice remembers what Julia said he’d done for the monster. To his credit, Penny doesn’t hesitate. “But yeah, I’m down.”

Julia shoots him a grateful look. “Okay, Josh, Q told me it was one of your concoctions that showed him my shade in the Underworld?”

“Aha,” Josh says, sitting up in the yellow wingback and looking nerdily delighted, as he always does about anything related to food or drugs or well, most things, really. “You need me to cook up one of my special prescriptions? You betcha Dr. Josh is on the case.”

On Julia’s other side, Kady’s fidgeting like she’s got a million other things to attend to, which in fairness, she probably does. “Listen, not to be insensitive or anything, but there’s a lot going down right now with the hedges, so if I’m not needed…”

“Um, actually. We kind of have a huge favour to ask?” For some reason, Julia hesitates for a moment, but she recovers quickly and turns toward Kady. “We were hoping you’d be the one to make contact with Q. It’s basically a souped-up version of a standard mental projection spell, so you’d go through the conduit with Penny as a guide.”

Kady’s brow knits. “Okay… But why me? I mean, we weren’t exactly close.”

“Actually, that kinda is why. Whoever goes in has to be totally clean. We can’t risk any emotional turbulence that might interfere with Quentin’s mending spell. So that rules out—well.” Julia pauses, clearly searching for the most diplomatic phrasing. “Most of us have sort of an emotive history with Q.”

Kady snorts, looking around the room, clearly unconcerned with diplomacy. “Right, yeah. His ex, the two people he cheated on her with—” at this, Eliot visibly flinches, looking faintly ill, but Kady either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care “—and oh, let’s see, the guy who mocked him relentlessly and the best friend who never loved him back, and then there’s—Josh?” Her lip curls. “I mean, you two didn’t have some secret shenanigans we don’t know about, did you?”

“No!” Josh says, a bit too forcefully. “I mean, of course not.”

Alice doesn’t bother to mention that actually, she and Quentin had been back together when he died. It doesn’t make any difference for the spell, after all.

“Well, Josh has enough to do with getting the batch ready,” says Julia.

“I mean, it won’t really take all that long to be honest with you guys.”

Alice steps in. “No offence, Josh, but we kinda need someone a little more—”

“Oh my god, you guys don’t trust me with this!”

“Kady’s just a little more, uh. Experienced, with this sort of thing,” says Julia. “It’s not that we don’t trust you.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t, personally,” says Margo. “Not with this.”

At Josh’s hangdog expression, Margo shrugs. “What? Sorry babe, not your skillset. This is a sensitive operation. Kady’s a battle magician, and therefore kicks ass when it comes to emotional enemas, am I right?”

“Um, super gross analogy,” Kady says with an eye roll. “But sure, I guess.”

“I’m sensitive,” Josh mutters to nobody in particular.

“Please, Kady,” asks Julia. “I need you on this, you know?”

They share a look and Kady grins. “Girl, come on. You know I’m your best bitch. When’s this shit going down?”

*

Shit goes down a week later, with Alice trying to keep a lid on her panic about the calculations for the circumstances and the sheer number of things that need to go smoothly to make this work. And even then—what if Kady can’t find any answers? What if she can’t even get through? What if they’re wrong and Quentin’s somewhere else entirely, lost in the ether, time slipping away from him?

_(Jesus, get a hold of yourself.)_

The mental projection spell itself isn’t complicated at all, especially since Julia’s participated in one before. That sets the foundations for the meta-math, but Quentin isn’t quite alive, and he isn’t quite on the same planet. The spell therefore requires a convoluted and precise set of calculations of the circumstances on Earth, and a flexible set of calculations to account for the circumstances in the between-world, since they’re impossible to determine in advance.

Alice and Julia have been working on it non-stop, and they’re both running on fumes, despite delegating several of the more involved enchantments to Eliot and Margo. It’s nice though, working with Julia again. They’d gotten along pretty well, once upon a time, and it feels good to clear the air, to apologise and be forgiven. Things are better with Eliot, too. He’d made a point of checking in and had been surprisingly keen to help with the busywork of collecting, steeping and enchanting various herbs to prepare a protection ritual for Kady.

Trying to clear her mind, Alice turns to Julia, who’s chalking up an intersecting four-pointed star, starting with the square at the centre, where Penny and Kady will sit. When she’s done, Alice checks the angles—each corner of the square is intricately connected to each point of the star, and the measurements must be precisely drawn without the use of magic.

Alice nods at Julia, and they each sit outside of the chalk lines at opposite points of the star, with Eliot and Margo joining them to complete the formation. Her thoughts snap as fast as lightning, and Alice tries to force herself to slow the fuck down, go over every detail one more time. But the math has been checked and triple checked. They’re ready, and from what Alice has seen, Quentin doesn’t have that much time left, so they need to get started, and really, she should just call it—

“Okay guys,” Julia says. “I think we’re ready.”

Penny and Kady hop up from the balcony where they’ve been meditating for the last half hour or so, and come to sit facing each other at the centre of the star.

“Right,” says Alice, addressing Julia, Margo and Eliot. “Does everyone have their three memories?”

As the closest to him, they’ll each draw on memories that speak to the truth of Quentin—not, Alice has previously stressed, necessarily their favourite or most positive memories, but those which capture the essence of who he was to them (“Quintessentially Quentin,” Margo had quipped, and even Eliot had cracked a smile at that, dubbing the memories “Quentessentials”).

Their collective memories will power the spell and direct Penny toward Quentin’s consciousness in the between-world. Once the conduit is open, Penny will guide Kady across, standing guard as a beacon for her return.

There’s a rush of nerves in Alice’s chest as she begins a series of complex patterns, chanting in Arabic under her breath. She draws on a deep well of magic within her, sparking quick and hot at her fingertips, and a flickering glow of white light draws a path along the chalk pattern connecting them all. When the light reaches her, Julia joins Alice, syncing her tuts perfectly. Margo’s next, the chants growing louder as the energy thrums and flows between them.

Alice looks to Eliot at her left, waiting for him to complete the star formation. His eyes meet hers for a fleeting second, and she can tell immediately there’s something wrong. His tuts are impeccable, as always, and Eliot’s never exactly had to work very hard at magic, Alice knows that much. But the light is skittering madly, as though resisting Eliot’s will—which doesn’t make any sense. Flaring and cascading now, the light is closing around them, blistering sparks like a firework that just keeps going and going until it burns everything in its path, and Eliot’s hands are stuck in Popper fifty four, his face slack with shock as the energy drops, the thick pressure of it crushing Alice’s chest. The light hardens, scraping at her skin, and everything slams to dark.

Everyone’s eyeing each other in confusion, except Margo, who’s shooting Eliot a series of urgent looks that he’s not responding to, likely because he’s trembling so much he can barely see beyond himself.

“What the fuck was that?” Kady turns to glare over her shoulder at Alice, still holding the see-other-worlds mini cinnamon roll Josh had baked, which apparently they don’t have much need for right this second.

“Yeah, that’s not meant to happen,” says Julia, eyes wide and worried. “Um, Alice?”

Margo’s reaching over to Eliot, trying to take his hand, but he flinches away from her, standing up in a daze. “I can’t, I can’t do this.”

“What? Look, it’s okay,” Margo says, looking up at him with a tense shift of emotions playing over her face. “Come on. It’s Quentin.”

“Exactly,” Eliot says. “I—” His face is ashen as he stumbles over to the clock, shoulders hunching, the long line of him broken.

“What the hell?” Julia leaps to her feet, her entire body emanating quick-hot fury. Alice winces, knowing first-hand how terrifying it is to have the full force of Julia’s rage directed at you. “Where the actual fuck do you think you’re going?”

He stops, but doesn’t turn back. “I can’t do it.”

“This is _important_ ,” Julia says, her voice breaking as her eyes fill with tears. “It’s _Quentin_.”

“You need to find someone else. I’ll only fuck it up.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Margo calls after him, but Eliot’s already gone.

*

The next day, when Laura calls him through to the bright little room where he grudgingly spills his guts twice a week, Eliot forgoes the usual niceties and cuts straight to it before he’s even sat down.

“I need—shit.” He drags in a harsh breath. “I need to do a spell. It’s really fucking important, okay? I can’t fuck it up. I can’t. I need you to help me.”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Laura says, a slight frown crinkling her forehead as Eliot drops into the armchair by the window, not quite looking at her.

“I just told you. I need to do some seriously important magic. I thought—I can’t—just help me, and I will talk to you about any one of my shitty feelings if I have to. Whatever you want—my dickhead homophobic dad, you wanna talk about him some more, hm?”

Eliot glares hotly at her, slammed with a violent fury that this is what it’s come to. Bargaining his stupid feelings; so utterly small and trivial, yet somehow they manage to take up so much space inside him. His feelings have already cost him so much, and yet here they are, standing once again between Eliot and the one thing he wants so much he’s half-sick with it. These fucking feelings he’s never wanted to have, stuck in the raw meat of him, are the only leverage he’s got; the only possible means by which he might, if he’s very fucking lucky, recuperate a loss so profound he doesn’t know how to go on living with it.

And he’ll do it. He’ll do whatever it takes.

“What about Logan Kinnear—oh, you’ll like this one; the asshole bully I killed when I was fourteen, first time I ever did magic—come on, that’s gotta get your juices flowing,” he snaps. “Anything. Name it.” Eliot’s spine straightens, imperious, every inch a High King embroiled in the most critical negotiations of his reign. “This has to work. You have to help me.”

Laura’s eyebrows had raised infinitesimally at the word ‘killed,’ which is like eliciting a gasp from anyone else. Normally Eliot would savour getting this reaction a little more, but there’s no time for that today.

“I’ve never seen you like this.” Laura steeples her fingers, frown deepening. “The urgency of your situation is certainly coming across loud and clear. But Eliot, you know this isn’t a quick fix solution. You can’t input homophobic dads and dead bullies and get the output you want.”

“But—”

“I’m not saying I won’t do my best to help you. Only that you must bear in mind the nature of the work we do here. Processing both of those things is absolutely important, but it’ll take time, and the results—if we can even call them that—are never simple. There are no guarantees. You know this already.”

Her expression, neutral skirting on stern, turns horribly kind. “What’s the spell, and when are you casting it?”

Eliot sags into the chair, an ordinary magician once more. Reluctantly, he admits it. “I already screwed up once. They’re trying again tomorrow.”

“I see.” Laura purses her mouth. “What happened in the original casting?”

“I _told_ you. I fucked it up.”

“I’m trying to get a sense of what happened for you, both magically and emotionally. What spell were you trying to cast?”

“I can’t say.”

Laura eyes him suspiciously. “All right. I trust that you can decide what’s pertinent here. And I suppose, given your history, that you’re about to do something highly risky and ill-advised, and that there’s very little I can do about it.”

Eliot just looks at her, impatient.

“Okay then. Can you tell me what happened to your magic—too much, or too little?”

“Kind of both,” he says. His stomach swerves. “It’s a cooperative spell. There was a ton of energy in the room and it was like my magic just… didn’t want to cooperate. I could feel it slipping and I tried—but I couldn’t. And then it exploded. Scared the shit out of everyone, I can tell you.”

“And what emotional triggers have you identified?”

He gives her a sidelong glance. “Quentin. Obviously. Big fucking understatement of a trigger.” The deep breath he takes doesn’t help at all, so Eliot barrels onwards. “Fuck, I swore I’d be honest. I wish I could just truthie myself…” Head tilting in thought, he wonders aloud. “Could I? Is that—no. Right. And that spell wiped me out for a week. Shit.”

“Eliot, take a breath or two. We have time.”

“I _am_ breathing,” he says, irritated. “This is so stupid. It’s embarrassing and, fucking stupid, and I used to be able to deal with all this shit, you know. I’ve never messed up a spell like that before. Never.”

“Do you really think you were dealing with things before?”

Eliot rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “No,” he says, chest tightening with resentment. “Obviously not.”

“So, what you meant was—”

“I used to be able to repress this shit, and it’d stay where I put it.”

“And what shit are we talking about, in this particular scenario?” Laura pushes. “Quentin, and what else?”

“Goddamnit. Alice. Is another trigger. In this particular scenario,” he grits out.

“Alice? You’ve mentioned her before, I believe. Is she—”

“Quentin’s girlfriend.”

“Ah.”

“She’s masterminding the spell. She—I told her it couldn’t be done, and of course she fucking takes it as a challenge. Of course she can do it. And thank god she did, or—well.”

Laura assesses him coolly but leaves it alone. “You two clearly have a complicated relationship. And I assume it won’t do me any good asking why she needs you for this spell.” She sits back in her chair with another thoughtful look.

Heart racing, Eliot’s voice is high and tight. “This is the actual last thing I ever want to talk about to anyone, in any dimension, on any planet.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m only doing it because it could cost—” His hands twist, mouth snapping shut. He drops back into the armchair, suddenly exhausted.

“I like Alice, actually—I’m a little jealous of her—fine, intensely jealous, but I like her. She’s a prickly bitch, kind of an icy know-it-all type. I get it, all those brains behind those big glasses, it’s hot, I guess, in a sex with the teacher kind of way.”

Laura looks at him, waiting.

“It’s not even like it sounds. I know how important Alice was to Quentin. God, we probably could’ve been friends. We’ve got a lot in common, in a weird way.”

“Why aren’t you friends?”

Eliot gives a short laugh. “Because I slept with her boyfriend. Because she screwed us over on the key quest… Because I was always kind of a dick to her, and I keep being a dick to her, even now.”

“You slept with Quentin while he was with Alice?”

Eliot waves an impatient hand. “It was nothing. There were circumstances, which, okay, I get how that sounds. Look, it was me and Margo and Quentin. We were all drunk and blasted on emotion bottles—”

“You used emotion bottles?” Laura asks sharply, sitting upright in her chair.

“Yeah, we needed battle magic to fight the Beast—Martin Chatwin. It was a whole thing. Kind of the thing that started all of this, I suppose.”

Eliot thinks this might merit another eyebrow raise, but it’s the bottles she takes issue with.

“They’re incredibly dangerous. It’s too late now, obviously, but you mustn’t use them again. You could seriously damage your magic.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning a repeat. The comedown alone is so not worth it.” Eliot leans back. “Well? Aren’t you going to ask about the threeway?”

“I was, in fact.”

He smirks. “Pervert.”

“You know me, I live for the juicy details,” she says with a smile. “Go on, then.”

“Well, Alice found us the next morning. Furious, obviously. Margo and I were assholes. Obviously.”

“And Quentin?”

“It screwed up their relationship. That and a whole load of even more complicated bullshit.” Eliot sighs and looks up, trying to think of how to explain, and doesn’t bother in the end. “Quentin loved her, that’s all that matters.”

“What about you?” Laura asks. “How did you feel afterwards?”

Eliot stiffens. “Like I said, comedown’s a bitch.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “God, fine. I was—upset.”

“What were you upset about?”

“I mean, there was a lot going on.”

_Were you blacked out when we met?_

“But you’re asking about Q, obviously. Emotional honesty,” he mumbles. “Right. It wasn’t planned. It was…” He closes his eyes, searching for the answers that never come. “I don’t know. I could laugh it off, I suppose, spin something about how I don’t really remember it—I managed to convince myself with that one for a while. Or I could tell you that Quentin was pretty good at giving head for a first timer, but you probably don’t want to hear about that. I mean, it’s the truth, but. Emotional honesty. I’m getting there. I’m trying.”

Laura waits for a beat or two, then says, “It sounds like Quentin was already quite important to you by this point.” She pauses again, eyes darting as she thinks something through. “Is it fair to say that your primary methods of managing these feelings were either using sex to deflect from them, or alternately, pretending they didn’t exist?”

Fuck. Usually Eliot’s grateful any time Laura breaks the silence first, but sometimes she comes out with shit like this that makes him wish he’d kept talking. Avoiding. Equivocating. Fuck.

“You looked really uncomfortable when I said that.”

Jesus. Does everything he says or does in this room have to be observed and commented on? Eliot gives her a resentful look. “Of course I’m uncomfortable,” he snaps. “Because you’re obviously not wrong, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, calm and annoyingly measured. “Can you say a bit more about that?”

“Fine. Yeah. I wasn’t like, instantly in love with him or anything, but I… shit. Yeah. I liked him. A lot. But he was… I don’t know. At first, when he was just a cute boy, it was fine. I thought I’d fuck him and move on. But it didn’t work out like that.”

“Why not?”

“Quentin kind of gets under your skin. I wasn’t used to that.” He sighs. “And the more I started to feel, the more I turned the flirtation into a game, almost, something he wouldn’t take too seriously.”

“You were protecting yourself.”

“Maybe. And then I was with Mike. And he was with Alice. Who both ended up dead,” he says, the realisation hitting him right in the gut. “I killed Mike, but he wasn’t really Mike. And Quentin—well, he thought he’d killed Niffin Alice, but she came back. So… I don’t know what to make of any of that.”

Laura’s mouth opens, and then closes. “I don’t know what to make of it either,” she admits. “You haven’t given much detail about Mike, and you don’t have to now, unless you feel it would be helpful. I know I’ve said this before, but it’s a major trauma and we need to be careful in our approach and make sure that you’ve got the tools to manage. It’s something we can work up to, okay?” 

He stares at her, lightheaded. “God, you must think I’m such a fuck up.”

“I think everything you’ve told me sheds light on the way the trauma you’ve experienced has impacted your ability to let yourself be vulnerable with people,” she says. “And I don’t say that to let you off the hook—you’ve made mistakes, like anyone. It’s important to acknowledge how trauma and shame might have influenced some of those choices. And hopefully, you can use that information to make better ones.”

Eliot takes this in, eyes closed.

“It was awful, the morning after. I felt—rejected,” he says, wrenching the words out from where they’ve been festering inside him for so long. “Even though that’s not what happened. Not really. And that night, it was… good. I don’t mean the sex. Or, I guess I do. But it was so much more than that.” 

Throat stinging, he says, “It was fun. Like, we laughed a lot? I don’t know how to explain. It was also… really intense. Serious, in a way. It felt like—this is stupid. But it felt like we were being honest with each other.” 

“That doesn’t sound stupid,” Laura says. “It sounds like intimacy.”

“Does it count as _intimacy_ —” Eliot’s face screws up as he says it—“if the only way you can have it is when everyone’s drunk off their tits?”

Laura smiles, quick and sharp. “That’s a good question. Some people would say no. But for what it’s worth, I think intimacy can take different forms, and that many of those forms are highly imperfect. Being drunk or high can perhaps facilitate a false sense of intimacy, more often than not. But it sounds like the three of you got something you needed from each other that night. Something important.” 

“It all looks different when the lights come up though, doesn’t it?” Eliot’s mouth twists. “It looks less like something important, and more like a colossal mistake.” 

“Can’t it be both?”

“Maybe for me,” he acknowledges. “But not for Quentin.”

“You don’t think that night meant as much to Quentin as it did to you?”

“No,” he says automatically, remembering how Quentin had looked at him the morning after, his face pinched and hurt. _It's not funny, and it's not a joke._ God, he might actually get to see his face again. Eliot’s chest clenches. “Definitely not.”

“So, Quentin didn’t return your attraction until later, is that right?”

Eliot cycles through a complex chain of denial; first, instinctively shutting down any notion that Quentin could ever be attracted to him—not really, not like that. Then, fine. Maybe in Fillory. Even if he wasn’t Quentin’s first choice, it’s hard to refute the notion that Quentin had probably—definitely, been attracted to him. _In love_ , his mind supplies helpfully, _he was in love with you_. And then, finally. He thinks about how after that night, there were times when Quentin would look at him a certain way, and something about it would make Eliot almost shiver. That something, he admits to himself, was desire. 

“I think maybe he was attracted to me. At least a little, or at least some of the time,” Eliot says, heartsore. “But it was like, I don’t know. So minor compared to… it was always Alice he really wanted.”

Laura nods. “Okay,” she says. “You’re doing really well. Now, with all of that history in mind, take me back to the spell. What happened?”

Eliot shifts in his seat. He can’t ever get comfortable in this lumpy as shit armchair, and although he tries to tell Laura as best he can, Eliot doesn’t really know what went wrong. It was just everything all at once. The way Quentin’s death had crushed him, all the ways Eliot had been broken and tried to rebuild himself, the fact that he could never quite seem to claw his way to a life that was liveable. That it was all his fault. _You shot the monster you idiot you killed him you killed Quentin what did you do._ Some days, Eliot’s so torn up with guilt and venom, his insides so twisted and loathsome that he feels certain the monster had chosen him for more than just revenge, that it’d seen the dirt and rot at his core, that it _knew_.

This is a stupid thing to think, and Eliot doesn’t see the point in saying it, doesn’t see how any of this self-pity could possibly help. But then. His heart twists miserably. It could. It might.

Eliot opens his mouth and lets the words come.

*

When Eliot arrives, the penthouse is eerily quiet. Alice hands him a coffee and ushers him out onto the balcony, where the morning sun is breaking in pink and orange streaks through the clouds.

“What did you want to talk about?” she asks, like it isn’t painfully obvious.

They sit. “It’s about the spell.” Eliot stares at a fixed point behind Alice’s head where there’s a patch of paintwork that’s a slightly lighter shade of blue than its surroundings. He swallows a dutiful mouth of coffee. “About why it got—why I messed up.”

Alice’s hand jerks out toward him, but stops short of actual physical contact, thank Christ. “It’s understandable you’ve maybe been drinking a little more than, um, usual,” she starts awkwardly, clearly trying to be tactful with an expression Eliot doesn’t think he’s ever seen on her face before, and hopes to god he never does again.

Eliot cuts her off, horrified. “Spare me the AA crap, okay? It’s not that.”

God, this is humiliating.

Alice’s attempt at delicacy shifts to a much more authentic look of disbelief, but she doesn’t say anything more.

“It’s really not. I’m not, ah. I haven’t been drinking for a while now.”

The lines of disbelief entrench. “But—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” Eliot hisses. “Or about the actual reason I fucked up, which is because I’m having some _issues_ with my magic.”

“Oh,” she says, taken aback. “What kind of—sorry, that’s not polite, you don’t have to say, obviously,” she adds quickly, and with blatant curiosity.

“Medical issue, if you must,” he says tightly, eyes flitting between the patch of paint and the lower half of Alice’s face.

“Oh,” she says again. “I—I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really,” he lies, relieved when nothing smashes or catches fire. “The thing is, Alice, I don’t want to tell you this at all, but I think I need to, in order to do the spell.”

“Eliot, it’s me. I know we’re not… close. But we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

Alice doesn’t recoil, exactly, but something close to it. Her face empties. “I guess not.”

“Shit. That’s not what I—” He starts again. “I’m not saying that to be cruel. Really. I obviously don’t have the best track record for sincerity. And I know I’ve been awful. But honestly? I wish we could be friends. Truly.”

She frowns as though working out a particularly complex math problem. “Well, we can be. All right?” Like it’s ever been that easy. For either of them. But Eliot wants to take what’s being offered, and so he nods.

“I’d like that.”

Alice looks cautiously pleased, the expression minute and fleeting, and Eliot does take her hand then. “Me too,” she says, voice a little rough around the edges.

“Now, let me tell you all about my heinous magical deformity…”

It’s not easy, telling Alice. But she doesn’t let go of his hand, and her eyes spark, first with academic understanding (“I can dig out a couple of articles for you—I mean, if you want.”) and then something like affinity. After all, nobody who carries themselves as rigidly as Alice does can honestly be all that acquainted with emotional wellbeing.

The conversation ends with an unexpected hug, both of them a little teary-eyed and a lot lighter for it.

It’s good. He’s still utterly exhausted by all these fucking feelings. But, it’s good. 

*

“So, think you can get it up this time?” Penny asks with a small smirk.

“Okay, you’re enjoying that analogy a little too much,” Eliot mutters, but otherwise he ignores Penny in favour of pacing back and forth while Julia and Alice draw up the four-pointed star again, painstaking in their work. Quentin doesn’t have all the time in the world, his spell’s running out of juice. They need to get this right.

You _need to get this right_.

_Take a deep breath_ , Laura would say, and so, while wanting nothing more than to claw his own eyes out, Eliot inhales deeply and counts to five, holding the breath low in his belly, before exhaling on a count of seven. His casting really has improved a lot, thanks to Laura, but the frustration of feeling like a first year prickles under his skin. He’s never doubted his abilities like this before. Sure, nobody would ever mistake Eliot for a scholar, but he hadn’t even felt like a first year when he’d actually been one. Magic’s always come easily to him. _Almost too easily_. The brutal smack of the yellow bus, his nose streaming red. The terrible satisfaction of getting what he wanted, and the price he’s paid for it ever since.

“Margo,” he hisses, tilting his head in the direction of the bathroom. She follows him with a curious look on her face.

He closes the door behind them. “Margo, I need to—shit.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she quips.

“Ha, ha,” Eliot says with an eye roll. “Look, I don’t want to say this, at all, but I don’t want to fuck the spell up.”

“Again, you mean?”

“You know what, I changed my mind.” Eliot swivels on one foot, but predictably, Margo grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him back to face her.

“Hey, talk to me.”

“I am _trying_.”

He can see the moment she bites back her automatic retort, and Eliot loves her for trying too.

“Look, this is important. Obviously. And I’m worried I’ll screw up. Again. I’m, ugh.” He ducks away from Margo’s concern, bracing against the sink, elbows locked. “It’s just embarrassing, this whole _issue_ I’m having. And everything—else. I don’t want to talk about any of it, but I think I have to.”

_You’re allowed to have emotions,_ Laura would say. But Eliot doesn’t want to have emotions.

“I’m sorry for being flip, okay?” Margo says. “This shit isn’t easy for me either, but I want you to be real with me.”

_It’s okay to tell other people how you feel_. But Eliot doesn’t want to tell anyone how he feels. He doesn’t want to feel anything at all.

He doesn’t feel anything at all.

_It can be dangerous for you to lie about how you feel, Eliot_.

“It’s my fault he died.”

“Fuck no, that’s not—”

“Yes,” he says, whirling around. “It is. Or, that’s how I feel. And if I can’t do this spell? It’ll be my fault he stays dead. I feel—” Eliot grimaces. “Resentful, honestly, of this whole thing. But besides that, I feel so fucking guilty I can’t stomach it sometimes.”

“That’s really shitty,” Margo says quietly. “I’m sorry.” She wraps herself around him, arms clinging to his shoulders and Eliot rests his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. They’ve always fit together so perfectly, right from the start. “Can I do anything?” she asks, muffled into his chest.

“Just this, my sweet Bambi. Apparently, I share my disgusting feelings, and then… I don’t know. Hope I can do the spell. Oh, and you can promise not to laugh while I… meditate.”

Predictably, Margo promises no such thing, already laughing in delight. “You meditate now, huh?”

“Yes,” he says with a scowl. “I meditate, and yes, it’s fucking awful.”

“Well, this I gotta see. Any more gross stuff in there that needs to come out first?” Margo asks, placing a hand delicately over his heart.

“No,” he says. “No—okay, one more thing. Fuck. I’m scared he’s gonna hate me.”

“Oh, honey,” Margo says. “Q could never hate you. Believe me.”

“Well, hopefully we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Time to get in touch with your inner Buddha,” Margo says with a hint of glee.

“Fuck off,” says Eliot, but he’s smiling, aglow with how much he loves her right now. 

Margo looks up at him and asks lightly, “Want me to leave you to it?”

He’s surprised to find that he doesn’t. With a deep breath, he says, “Not really. Just…”

“I won’t laugh,” Margo says, lips twitching. “Probably. Like, there’s definitely an eighty-five percent chance I might not laugh.”

“Okay, there’s like an eighty-five percent chance I’m gonna gag you,” he grumbles.

“Mm, not really my kink,” she says with a grin. “But for you I could make an exception. Or… I can just do it with you?”

“What, meditate?” He looks at her askance, lip curling. 

“El, come on. I’ve done plenty of weirder shit for you.” She drops gracefully to the floor, grabbing towels for them to sit on. 

“That’s certainly true,” he says. Their eyes lock for a second, and from Margo’s tiny smirk, he knows they’re both thinking of a particularly special night at their first Encanto. God, they were such fucking _kids_. That time feels eons away, further even than the life in Fillory he never led. 

“But this is going to be way less fun, I promise you.” Eliot joins her on the floor. “Meditation sucks. It’s not exactly a party.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. We can party later. Now, we—what do we do, exactly? Clear our minds, or some crap?”

“God, I wish,” Eliot says. “No, it’s more like—” he ducks his head, embarrassed. “You concentrate on whatever’s fucking you up, then you, like, accept it. Or something. I dunno, it’s dumb.”

“That is some god-awful shit,” Margo says cheerfully. “Let’s do it.”

“You’re not wrong,” says Eliot, closing his eyes. “Ugh, okay.”

After about five minutes (which is honestly longer than Eliot’d thought she’d last), Margo says, “Wait, so are you just sitting there thinking about Q hating you? Because that’s depressing as hell.”

“ _No_ ,” he says in a strained whisper. Although, well. That had been the plan. At least for starters. But instead his mind had skipped straight to the part where Quentin doesn’t even get the chance to hate him again, because Eliot fucks it all up, and Quentin’s spell fizzles out and that’s it. Done. 

“Look, I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? It’s an _emergency_. I have to try everything. Then I know I’ve done all I could do.”

“Oh, El.”

Eliot’s immensely glad he can’t see Margo’s face right now. “God, shut up. I’m _practicing emotional honesty_ ,” he says, affecting an earnest tone as he tries and entirely fails to keep a straight face. “And you’re not helping.”

“Oh my god, is this who you are now?” Margo’s giggles are infectious and soon they’re both laughing uncontrollably. This is who he is now, an almighty fuck-up trying to get unfucked. Which, yeah, is kind of hilarious.

Still grinning, Margo says, “Sorry, sorry, I’ll zip it, I promise.”

But Eliot’s chest feels lighter, like something has lifted. Even if it’s only temporary, it’s a relief nonetheless. “No, hang on. Just let me—” He takes a breath, raises his hands up into a casting position, and sends a controlled telekinetic blast towards the window, relieved when it flies open, letting in the sticky afternoon heat.

They stand; Eliot takes Margo’s hands and gazes down at her, imagining how this might’ve played out once upon a time. _Love you, bitch_. Neither of them quite capable of showing affection without draping it in a hundred glittering layers of ironic detachment, both of them having long ago learned that sincerity was the fastest route to getting hurt.

“I love you,” he says, grip tightening. “Okay?”

Margo laughs, her head tipping back slightly. “Okay. I love you too.” She rolls her eyes a little, but looks genuinely pleased, a tiny smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Obviously.”

When Margo opens the bathroom door, they find Penny with his fist raised, about to knock.

“Are you two done gossiping in the bathroom? There’s some actual important shit happening, you know.”

“Aw,” says Eliot, as Margo slips away toward the others in the living room. “Didn’t know you cared.”

“Dude’s dead. I’m not heartless,” Penny says with one of his inscrutable looks. “And besides, I got plenty of other crap I could be doing, okay? So if you could stay sober long enough to _not_ fuck everything up this time, that’d be super great.”

“There’s the Penny we know and love,” Eliot says. Ironically a finger or two or bourbon would probably calm his nerves enough to get the spell done. But instead of making a dash for the liquor cabinet, Eliot sighs. “I’m actually eight months sober and still a fuck up, so…”

Penny’s eyes widen, head tipping to the side as he takes this in, perhaps trying to decide whether Eliot’s joking or not. Eliot’d be insulted if he didn’t find it so hard to believe himself.

“Sorry, didn’t—you don’t seem… Good for you, man,” Penny eventually settles on, finishing with an awkward but seemingly sincere nod. He walks over to join Kady, sitting cross-legged opposite her. Eliot gives the bourbon serious consideration for a moment, but he’s being ridiculous. There’s too much on the line, and besides, they’re all waiting for him, sitting in nervous formation.

He takes his seat, trying his best to ignore Alice’s encouraging smile.

“Everyone got their memories ready?” she says, and they all nod.

Satisfied, Alice begins. She casts efficiently, perfectly, just like Alice always does, and while he’s waiting for his turn, Eliot does what Laura’s been telling him to do.

_It’s okay to acknowledge your feelings_.

He can do this. Eliot, with all of his fear and dread and shame, the guilt crawling inside him, his stupid, broken heart, the fragile core of him that’s so fucking scared all of the time.

_Accept what’s really happening for you, whatever that might be._

Eliot feels like _such_ a dick, even in his own mind, but he does it.

No bullshit. Just Eliot and all his fucked up feelings, his hands moving in sync with the elegantly constructed pattern and it’s—it’s working. He can feel it; his magic flowing, opening, connecting with the world beyond him. He directs the light back toward Alice; she nods sharply, and in unison, the four of them begin the final series of complicated tuts. Like last time, the light glows around them, but now it grows stronger, incandescent, almost vibrating, and Eliot lets the radiance of their shared magic wash over him in pure relief.

*

Jane followed Martin through the clock—where had it been, the basement? Yes, the basement, where they’d fashioned twin rams and a clock face from craft paper and stuck them on top of an old cupboard from the kitchen—it’d been renovated that summer; the summer before her dad had been—

Julia shakes her head, refocusing on the memory.

The cupboard was the perfect height, and, most importantly, the back was missing, meaning she and Q could scramble through into Fillory and out the other side.

Jane followed Martin through the clock, and immediately, the Watcherwoman struck—“Martin!” Julia cried in high falsetto, affecting what was almost certainly a terrible British accent.

“Quickly now, we must hide at once!” And so they had, giggling and breaking character as they rolled under the couch, lying very still in the dust, Quentin’s eyes wide with delight. “She’s coming, listen, when the clock strikes twelve, we’ve got to—I mean, we must make a run for it,” Martin said urgently, and Julia could hear the ticking of the Watcherwoman’s clock, could feel her shadowy presence envelope them as she squeezed Quentin’s hand tight… she was coming, she was going to get them, any minute, any second—Now!

*

Knowledge. Power. Truths she can’t remember and more beauty than she’d ever expected to find in this world or any other. More vibrant and alive than she’d ever been as Alice, and there was no such thing as satisfaction as a Niffin, because there wasn’t really any such thing as desire; only relentless curiosity untempered by the petty, pathetic human cravings that had always held her back—focus, Jesus, don’t fuck this up too. Right. Her appetite knew no limits and the multiverse was an all-you-can-eat buffet, until _Quentin_ had called time. Quentin, a gaping wound of a man with a cavernous pit of need at his core. Those wretched needs he’d brought Alice back to fulfil, those needs which pathetic human Alice had once tried so hard to meet, and she’d finally been released from the guilt of her failure, until he dragged her back into a frail mortal form and expected her to be _grateful_.

*

It’d been nothing special, which was exactly what had made it so perfect. Just the three of them camped out on Margo’s bed, the Buffy musical episode on, Quentin’s hands thrashing through the air as he reeled off obscure facts and trivia, showing off the script book he’d won in some dumb competition like it was an actual brag, him and Margo singing along badly at the top of their voices while Eliot pretended he didn’t know the lyrics.

Two more episodes, three Hoberman special cookies, and four bottles of wine later had them sprawled in each other’s laps, giggling at an increasingly nonsensical game of Fuck, Marry, Kill.

“Marry Willow, fuck Buffy—only season six Buffy though. Oh, and straight up murder Xander, that’s a given,” Eliot declared, raising his glass to the prospect. 

Quentin sat up, indignant. “ _You_ want to bone _Buffy_. Wait, you want to bone depresso season six Buffy? That’s just weird. You’re weird.”

Eliot’s shrug was more of a wriggle from where he was curled up across Margo, head pillowed sleepily on her stomach. “What can I say? All that tortured self-loathing really does it for me. And what, like you wouldn’t want to get in on those Buffy/Spike bring-the-house-down shenanigans?” he said, complete with a hip thrust into the mattress as he broke into disjointed giggles.

“Oh, wow,” said Quentin, draining the dregs of his glass. “That is… not what I was expecting.”

“Well?” Margo pressed, trailing a hand over Quentin’s shoulder. “Don’t you want in on the shenanigans, little Q?”

Cheeks flushing—it was _so_ easy and _so_ much fun to embarrass this kid—Quentin contemplated it. “You know what,” he said, gesturing wildly with his empty glass. “I see it, I do.”

Margo slapped Eliot’s arm. “He sees it!”

Eliot ignored her. “So, Xander’s out of the running for obvious reasons and Q, you’re clearly going to have a torrid one night affair with Buffy that you jerk off to every night of your dull but nerdily wholesome married life with Willow, so let’s move on.”

“Uh, I don’t really want to fuck either of them?” Quentin’s nose wrinkled adorably as he put entirely too much thought into it. “But sure, I guess since those are my options…”

“One, yeah right. And two, yes, well done, you’ve accurately intuited the rules of the game. Also don’t lie. You’re among friends here… And we all know super nerds get you hot under the collar like nothing else.” Eliot dissolved into manic giggles for no particular reason.

“Um, isn’t that actually you two?”

“Damn, Coldwater.” Margo tipped her head down toward Eliot in mock surprise. “He’s got us bang to rights there.”

Eliot snickered drunkenly. “ _Bang_ to rights… Ha.”

Margo rolled her eyes at this and Quentin nodded, satisfied, flopping down next to them again. “The Scoobies are boring, what about… Giles, Buffy, Spike.”

“Kill Buffy, bang Giles, marry Spike,” Margo and Eliot said in terrifying unison.

“What?” Quentin shot back up again, in confusion this time. “Why are you marrying Spike when you could be having, uh, sex with him?”

“Duh,” said Margo, tangling her fingers through Eliot’s curls with one hand, and the soft strands of Quentin’s hair with the other. “Marry a boy, you bang for life.”

“Mm,” said Eliot, shuffling to a sort of half upright slump to pour more wine for them all.

“Wait. That is _not_ how the game works. Like, at all.” Quentin was outraged, as only a true nerd can be about such things. “You don’t get to have married sex, that completely undermines the premise of the game. The whole thing falls apart.”

“Sure you do. Filthy hot missionary with the lights off.”

“Amen to that,” said Margo, clinking Eliot’s glass a little too forcefully and snorting loudly as red wine sloshes onto the bedspread.

“Is that what you’re doing with Willow for the next fifty years?” Quentin demanded, poking Eliot’s shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Oh honey, no.” Eliot rolled over to face Quentin, both of them up on one elbow, bodies curled toward each other like lazily drawn parentheses. “We’re having a traditional sexless marriage—she’s gay now, don’t you know.”

“I thought you sometimes slept with—um.” Quentin flushed, like this was somehow overstepping. Poor boy.

“Sometimes,” Eliot said easily. “But not with Willow.”

“Oh, right,” said Quentin, nodding like this made perfect sense.

From there, they’d argued about the rules for honest-to-god another fifteen minutes Margo’d never be able to claim back, before the conversation devolved into ragging on Quentin’s taste for the hot mean girls of the Buffyverse (“Except Faith—she’s like, objectively hot? But you saw what she did to Xander, she’d eat me alive”) and Eliot had spun increasingly detailed sex fantasies, culminating in an epic tale where the students of Brakebills turned into hyena people and had a giant orgy in the Welters stadium with Todd as their ritual sacrifice. Quentin, horrified, had egged him on.

Margo smiles to herself. It had been a really good night.

*

God, Julia had been fucking furious with Quentin that day outside the safehouse. Sneering because he’d gotten into _Brakebills_ and was _classically trained_ , don’t you know. 

“I’m sorry, but I mean it.”

The memory of his sanctimonious tone still makes Julia’s shoulders tighten.

“Grow up.”

Every inch of him had brimmed with contempt.

“Stop slumming because you’re pissed that you lost for once in your life.”

Quentin had _loved_ saying that to her, and that’d hurt even more than the fact that he was right; she had been slumming it. She doesn’t regret any of it, not now, and Brakebills can suck it, but god, Q could get under her skin like nobody else.

And _of course_ she’d known how he felt about her. Jesus. It’d been pretty hard to ignore his sad puppy eyes, the yearning for every scrap of her attention, his curdling resentment when he didn’t get what he wanted.

“Admit it. Just admit it. Admit it”

The condescending _look_ on his fucking _face_.

Admit that because she didn’t want to fuck him, that what? Now she was finally getting the payback she deserved?

Fucking Quentin, he could be so self-righteous, so full of shit.

She doesn’t like to think about it, especially not now. Besides, she’s forgiven Quentin a hundred times over. And what Julia’d done in retaliation had been a thousand times worse.

But, well. Quentin could be a real dick sometimes, and that was the truth of it.

*

The sight of him was a bass rhythm pounding in his chest, a rush of dizzy elation Eliot had no longer wanted to ignore or push aside; he was finally ready to embrace it, but there wasn’t _time_. And Quentin’s face; his actual face, and not the convincingly kind illusion his mind had conjured—it’d worn disbelief at first, then he’d just looked stunned and strangely numb, with his mouth downturned and open, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing was real. Like he’d thought they might never see each other again. “Eliot,” he’d said, leaning toward him with a quiet urgency, and that had been all they’d gotten but it’d been enough.

Quentin would save him, he’d had no doubt.

That’s what Quentin did, who he was. Or who he wanted to be, which in so many ways amounted to the same thing.

*

When Alice had first met Quentin, it was obvious how desperately he wanted to be the hero, the one who mattered. He’d never exactly tried to hide it. Quentin who’d grown up with a split at the centre of his soul. The same story told a thousand different ways over thousands of years had told Quentin he was a special boy who’d grow up to be a special man. Fogg, Jane Chatwin, Ember—they all assumed he was special, and Alice had once thought so too.

But Quentin wasn’t special, and he knew it. 

“I want to be the one. I do,” he said, turning away as his voice broke with just how badly he wanted it. But despite being a rather average student and an even worse boyfriend, Quentin had tried to become a better man.

“It's just... it's the adult part of me, the part of me that understands how magic works, it just—it just keeps screaming that it's you. What if I change something? What if I give the blade to you?”

And so, Quentin had passed the mantle of the quest to Alice, the quest he’d hoped would finally make him a hero. Sure, it’d all gone to shit and gotten her killed, or something near enough, but. He’d been trying to do the right thing.

“You're not as good as I hoped, Quentin Coldwater. But you're better than you know.”

*

Maybe at first Margo had been humouring Quentin a little, but the coronation had actually turned out to be kind of beautiful. Still, she hadn’t been able to resist giving him _some_ shit for it.

“I could start by saying something cruel yet totally hilarious about you. Let's be real, you're an easy target.” God, he really was though, and he refused to suck it up and wear the armour they’d all so painstakingly fashioned, even though he probably needed it more than any of them.

He stood there expectantly, clearly still waiting for the blow to fall. And then, well. It was terribly gauche, and definitely Quentin’s fault for being such a bad influence, but Margo wanted to say something real for once. 

“That’s because you’re honest about what you love. And underneath it all, that’s inspiring.”

*

Maybe it wasn’t _this_ Quentin, but it was still a part of him, and Eliot finally has to acknowledge what this means. He wants to, now more than ever. Not only because he so deeply regrets shutting Quentin down every time he’d tried to talk about the mosaic, but because he desperately needs the reminder that there truly had been a world in which Quentin had loved him, fiercely, and with more tenderness than Eliot had ever allowed himself to hope for.

There had been a world in which Quentin had been a father, a husband, and a life-partner. A world where Eliot learned all of his most endearing habits and irritating tics. He’d learned that Quentin had broken his wrist when he was fourteen while pretending he was an intrepid explorer in his local park, how he’d felt about his parents divorce (mostly relieved), all the unhappy details of his multiple hospitalisations, his favourite dessert (chocolate cake, which Quentin considered a classic choice and Eliot deemed uninspired), that his feet were always freezing when they curled around each other in bed, and that he’d only gotten more beautiful as the years slipped by. That one day, they were suddenly both so fucking _old_ , and more in love than they’d ever been. 

A world where Quentin had loved bravely; fearless and open with his affections.

Most importantly, a world where Eliot had let him.

It’d been achingly hot for weeks without reprieve and their tiny cottage was airless, sticky, and humid. The mosaic was making them both miserable, as was the dawning recognition that they were clearly going to be living in Fillory for far longer than anticipated. For some unfathomable reason, Eliot had decided this was the perfect time to learn how to fish. The (rather handsome) young men from the nearby village he’d spotted down by the river with their spears and buckets had certainly made it look easy enough. And despite the efforts he’d made to scrub his entire childhood from existence, Eliot still remembered how to do actual practical shit. Besides, he had magic. How hard could it be? He’d catch a few fish and mix things up a bit, impress Quentin with a nice dinner, if not exactly a fancy one.

Of course, the fish in Fillory couldn’t be caught with magic. No matter how Eliot enchanted his spear (borrowed with a wink and a smile), the wily little fuckers evaded him every time. Quentin was pissing himself laughing on the riverbank, while Eliot stalked up and down the shore, eventually wading in up to his knees, the water cool and pleasant.

“You nearly had that one!”

He had not.

“Uh, left a bit,” Quentin said. “That big fat blue one, no look, it’s right there—”

“Quentin,” Eliot growled. “No one likes a backseat angler—either get in here and help me or—oh, shut up.”

“Ha, no thanks. This is your project. Besides, it’s way too much fun watching you flail around with that thing.”

“I am not _flailing_ ,” Eliot protested, turning to glare at Quentin, and, at a most inopportune moment, slipping on a rock, flailing wildly and crashing into the cold, sharp shock of the water. With a gasp, he surfaced to find Quentin doubled over on the grassy verge, red-faced and crying with laughter.

“Oh my god,” Quentin wheezed. “That was… oh my _god_. I wish I had a camera right now, seriously. I think you’ve scared away every fish in Fillory.”

Indignant, Eliot marched over—well, waded—grabbed an unsuspecting Quentin’s ankles and yanked him into the water. Eliot grinned in smug satisfaction at the aborted little shriek he made and waited for Quentin to emerge, before promptly dunking him again.

Quentin spluttered madly, his head bobbing above the water. “Ohh, you are going down…”

Dunking and shoving at each other released a week’s worth of sniping and jibing, and the initial shock of the water had become so refreshing that they’d ended up stripping down to their underwear, splashing and swimming and laughing.

And then, it’d been nothing really. Quentin had dipped his hair river-wet, standing to tie it back, and Eliot’d looked up at him, streaks of afternoon sunlight glittering across his chest, water clinging to the hollows of his hipbones, the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel—and he’d known right then and there that he was utterly gone on Quentin, that this was it for him.

Eliot wanted to kiss him, quite badly, but kept the urge to himself, as Eliot so often did with the things he truly wanted. His self-sabotage aside, it was early days between them, and although they’d hooked up a few times by now, Eliot had the idea that kissing Quentin out here in the open might somehow disturb whatever fragile thing he secretly hoped they were teetering on the verge of.

But Quentin, naturally, had sunk down into the water with a promise in those warm brown eyes, pulling Eliot toward him, his grin fond and his hand strong at the back of Eliot’s neck as he pressed their lips together, soft and lazy. It’d been the first kiss they’d shared when they weren’t fucking and that wasn’t going anywhere, just their tongues sliding together, hot and slick in the luminous heat of a sunlit afternoon.

That kiss had been the start of something, something his Quentin had never gotten to finish.

*

“You want me to come to Fillory with you?”

Saving the terribly posh little Jane Chatwin was one thing, being in the goddamn books, in one of the most iconic scenes was… Julia’d thought her heart might burst with pure joy, and she’d looked at Quentin, awestruck, knowing he was feeling the exact same thing.

Because this was something they’d always shared. Or nearly always. Julia feels a deep pang of sadness thinking that she’d nearly let go of Fillory, and that she’d encouraged Quentin to do the same. And sure, Fillory might not have turned out to be anything like they’d dreamed, but it was _real_ and they’d got to experience that first thrill of it together.

Best friends. Always. No matter what.

*

“I find secret doors—whether I’m alone or in a group, it doesn’t matter.”

Had Alice been a secret door? Had she wanted to be?

She’d thought, during the trials, that they were bonding, building some great intimacy. And they had been, that was still true. But looking back at it now, Quentin hadn’t even responded to her secret—not really, not until weeks later when they were in Fillory (another secret door), and he was trying to win her back without seeming like he was trying to win her back.

She’d tried to comfort him, but he’d barely even seen her, too wrapped up in his own shit. That was Quentin all over, except that when he did finally look at Alice—really looked at her, seeing her like nobody else ever had before or since—it was the best thing that’d ever happened to her. Quentin, for all his flaws, had been the best goddamn thing in her life. Alice should’ve told him that while she’d had the chance.

Everything with Quentin had been like nothing before or since.

He’d been so soft with her.

( _Too soft_. No. Maybe.)

In those early days, Quentin had made Alice feel bold, brave. He’d made her feel _wanted_. Because Quentin had wanted her with an urgency she’d been unable to fully comprehend or appreciate at the time. And in turn, he’d made her feel like she was allowed to want things, to want _him_ , the delicate tangle of his hair in her fist, the broad planes of his chest beneath her, his arms tight around her, pulling her down and holding her close like she meant everything to him.

Quentin had let Alice be soft too. Still smart, still blunt at the edges, and still _complicated_ as Stephanie would say with a shrug and an eye roll, like Stephanie wasn’t the one who’d _made her that way goddamnit—_

Right, Quentin. Quentin had turned Alice into the sort of person who kissed the boy she liked in broad daylight, in the middle of the afternoon—in the middle of _class_.

And then they’d both turned into foxes. It hadn’t even all been about the sex. The reprieve from herself, from the exhausting reality of being Alice Quinn—this is something she knows Quentin understood at a cellular level. They were so different in so many ways, but they’d both been desperate for an escape hatch, and they found the next best thing in each other.

Quentin had turned her into someone who not only had desires, but acted on them too, someone who pushed the boy she liked down onto the bed and took everything she’d ever been too afraid to want.

(She’d wanted him to take from her, too, but it’s no good thinking about that now.)

Alice thinks instead about the warm den they’d built together, another reprieve, this time not from themselves, but from the harsh reality of the world outside.

“Vix,” he’d say, mouth curling into one of Quentin’s soft half-smiles, the kind that made her heart shudder and her stomach drop with pleasure right before he kissed her.

But then, Quentin had also said this: “I have literal magic in my life, and I’m still running. I’m still this person that I fucking hate.”

And now, Alice’s heart aches to think that maybe Quentin’s secret had stayed with him right until the end.

*

Margo lay on the bed opposite Quentin, propped up by her elbow. Those emotion bottles were messy as shit. Her insides had been scraped raw by a storm of grief and passion and shame—all the crap Margo thought she’d banished a long time ago. And at the centre of that storm was Eliot. Because things hadn’t been right with Eliot for a while; everything that’d once fizzed and sparkled between them had gone flat and sour in the pit of her stomach. And Quentin was the only person she could talk to about it, because he loved Eliot almost as much as she did, and because he said things like—

“The spring didn't just fix Rupert's leg. It healed him. All of him.” 

Margo had long ago stopped believing that any of the darkness inside her could be healed. Especially by magic, which, as they should all have learned a gazillion times by now, created twenty new problems for every one it managed to fix. But Quentin, he just had this way of—

“There’s this thing about you, Q. You actually believe in magic.”

“So does everyone,” he said with an edge of self-deprecation, anticipating a joke at his expense, no doubt—and with good reason. He was an easy target, after all—but that’s not this memory.

Because in this memory, Margo said, “No. We all know it’s real, but you believe in it. And you just love it, pure and simple. You know, I've never loved something like that.”

“That’s not true,” he said, and it’d been so quiet and so sincere—everything Quentin said and did came straight from the heart; that boy was a mess of squished up feelings, and they spilled out everywhere and onto everyone in his path. That was the best and worst of Quentin. Yes, there was a pureness to him, a simplicity; but he couldn’t always see the truth of other people. Or at least—that’s what she’d thought at the time. Because, well. It was certainly accurate enough to say that Quentin wasn’t looking for the truth of other people, that his gaze was so often and so firmly directed inward.

But then, in fairness, Margo hadn’t wanted him, or anyone, to see her, not really. It was complicated. Because in a literal sense, perhaps Quentin was right. Once upon a time, Margo had loved openly, passionately—or she’d tried to. But by the time she got to Brakebills, Margo had stopped trying. And that was the thing he couldn’t see; the thing she kept hidden, the thing he wasn’t looking for. It wasn’t Quentin’s fault he couldn’t see hidden things. But sometimes he could’ve looked a little harder beyond himself, was the point.

That awful evening, he’d only wanted to comfort her, in his own clumsy way. And when he said, “That’s not true,” Margo had thought it was sweet enough, but that Quentin only saw what he wanted to see.

Now, Margo has seen the best and worst of herself. Alone in the desert, ripped open and spitting chaos, the world a hollow place without Eliot in it. Margo had spent too much time acting above it all, like nothing mattered and nothing could touch her.

Yes, she could do it alone. But she didn’t want to.

“The only thing I ever did right was be your best friend. That's the only thing I ever got right,” she said to the reptilian hallucination of her best friend, her actual fucking soulmate, if such things existed.

So yeah, now Margo thinks she understands what Quentin meant. Maybe it was true that he couldn’t see past his own fucked-up brain long enough to notice that everyone else was hurting just as much as he was. But maybe she hadn’t given him enough credit, too, because that night he’d looked at Margo and seen the truth of exactly how much she loved Eliot.

Pure and simple. 

*

Quentin had loved Eliot for fifty years and he still wanted more. That was the crazy part, the part Eliot still couldn’t wrap his head around. That Quentin wanted him at all. But that’s not what Eliot’s here for.

“Like, we, we work. And we know it ‘cause we lived it. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?”

Quentin stood up to the Beast even knowing he’d died thirty-nine times doing that exact same dumb thing. He’d been willing to give up his life to guard the stupid monster that stupid Eliot had stupidly shot, and—right. Quentin.

He played at being the big damn hero.

But the bravest thing about Quentin was that he knew who he was. He wasn’t always secure in it, and he could be awkward as fuck about it, but he wasn’t afraid to be himself. He hadn’t been afraid to ask Eliot to try something crazy. He wasn’t afraid of his feelings, to want things, and to let other others know he wanted them, even if it hurt him. He wasn’t afraid to let other people see him—really see him.

That was Quentin, right there.

*

Even with her eyes closed, the light is dazzling; luminous and flickering behind Kady’s eyelids. Arabic fades into Sanskrit and that’s her cue—she takes a bite of the freshly baked cinnamon roll, and holy fuck, it’s good. Topped with walnuts and a tart layer of apple baked into the swirl; it’s probably the best she’s ever tried. Hoberman knows his shit. 

Kady licks the frosting off her fingers.

It’s time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr [@stormscoming](https://stormscoming.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alice looks in the mirror. Really looks. Sees herself, sharp-eyed. Her hands smooth-spoken, hooking and twisting and working her will. Never before has she seen herself quite like this, never witnessed what other people must see when they look at her, and it’s honestly—it’s everything she's ever feared—too much power, too damn clever for her own good. Alice knows too much; she’s seen and forgotten everything there is to see._
> 
> _And she can do things other magicians can’t._
> 
> _Alice looks and looks. Her mouth curls into a snarl. It’s savage, it’s, it’s—she’s always been afraid of her own power (except for when she wasn’t Alice anymore) and she still—she still is. That effervescent sting of fear is a constant, an ever-growing and always-shifting part of what makes her Alice again, and for the first time post-Niffin, maybe the first time ever, she’s finally seeing what she’s capable of. Her, Alice, here, now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while!! This is the end of part two - huge thanks to Rubick and hoko_onchi for their help getting this chapter into shape - I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Also, check out [this gorgeous embroidery](https://imgur.com/a/yItxKiT) of a quote from chapter one, by mercurialmercy! I adore it and thank you again <3

When Kady opens her eyes, Twenty-Three’s waiting, hand outstretched and gaze solemn in a way her Penny’s rarely had been.

“This way,” he says, beckoning, though how the hell he can see where they’re going is a mystery. Some Traveler shit, probably, because everything’s an aching, skull-cracking white, but Twenty-Three guides Kady through it until the incandescence finally gives way to an ashy mist. There’s a door up ahead—no, two doors, both painted the same austere shade of grey. Twenty-Three stops, letting go of her hand. “I’ll be here when you get back. You’ve got your work cut out for you, I’ll say that much.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Kady mutters. “Do you have any actual advice? Like where I’m supposed to go?”

He shrugs. “Kinda up to you from here. I’m just the conduit; you’re the visitor. Go, visit.”

And with that, Twenty-Three steps back into the mist, leaving Kady alone with a decision to make. She examines the doors more closely, hoping for a clue, but nope, they’re both perfectly nondescript, and perfectly identical. Of course.

Penny had been inside Quentin’s head on a number of occasions, and he’d complained about it plenty. _For real though, the whiny bullshit in that guy’s head is seriously pathetic. Wah, wah, I’m not good enough, wah, I suck at magic and nobody loves me—wah, maybe I should take a running jump into suicide fucking fountain.”_

She’d laughed at the time, but Kady winces at the memory, wishing she hadn’t thought of it now. It hardly seems like the best omen to bring along on this particular trip. Kady takes a quick breath, reaching into her pocket to find the mala beads she’d grabbed on a whim. She hasn’t needed them in years, but it’s surprisingly comforting to feel the cool crystal warming to her touch as she slips each bead between her middle and index fingers in sync with her breathing. Hannah had given them to her when Kady’d started her meditative training—her first ever set. It’s exactly what she needs right now; a material reminder of where she came from, who she is, and what she can do. _You’re a fucking_ battle magician. _That’s why you’re here._ Because she knows how to channel her emotions, to let them ebb and flow without dictating her thoughts or actions. _Now do your fucking job._ Right. Kady nods to herself. She’s ready.

“Ah, fuck it.” Kady tries the door on the left, regretting her choice as soon as she steps over the threshold. A bolt of dread spikes through her chest, instinct bringing her hands up into a battle-ready stance. But there’s nothing here. Just an empty room. Vast and colourless, and more than a little creepy, but—empty.

Anxiety skittering in her gut, Kady turns to get the hell out of there—she must’ve picked the wrong room? But—what the fuck? The door’s gone. Because of course it fucking is. Twenty-Three was right, whatever’s going on in Coldwater’s messed up head’s not gonna be easy to navigate, that’s for sure.

Even so, this can’t be right. Trapped in an empty room with no way out, and no clue what to do next. Where the fuck is Quentin? Fair enough, Kady didn’t know him very well (which is why, after all, she’s here), but she’s pretty damn certain the dude’s consciousness amounts to more than some miserable void. If only because, well, surely everyone’s has to. It’s depressing as shit to think otherwise.

It’s gradual enough that Kady walks the perimeter of the room several times before she realises the walls are closing in. Like, literally. For fuck’s sake. At first, it’s a slow puncture, all that vast emptiness shrivelling around her. Then, as though noticing it has accelerated the process, the space inside the room disappears rapidly like a popped balloon, until finally, she’s left with barely a square yard between each of the haggard walls, which look like they might simply wither from existence at a moment’s notice.

The walls stop moving, finally. Kady eyes them with suspicion. Good thing she’s not claustrophobic. Though that’s about the only thing that’s good right now. She runs her hands over the crumbling plaster and considers blasting a spell through one of the ashen walls, but it seems a tad rude to start blowing up what little consciousness Quentin appears to have left. If she’s even in the right place to begin with. Eliot already fucked up the spell once, after all. Kady could be literally anywhere.

She notices her thoughts racing along and takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes and counts backwards from fifty—

It’s not working. For some reason, it’s so much harder to keep her shit tight here. There aren’t a ton of options going around, so when a wave of exhaustion crashes into her, Kady goes with it, sagging to the floor in a heap. In fact, all she’d really like to do is stop moving altogether. Hands on the floor, bent double. Kady can’t quite—doesn’t quite want—can’t breathe and then—there’s a flash, a weary sort of terror gripping her insides. That same terror she’d felt about Penny ( _her_ Penny). Kady hadn’t wanted to die, not exactly. But all she really wants, still, is to be with him. She wants so badly for her world to feel right again, and it’d only felt right with him. Kady wishes to fuck that wasn’t the truth, because how fucking gross is that?

 _Jesus fucking Christ get your shit together_. With great effort, Kady pushes herself upright. Limbs leaden, uncooperative. It seems to take forever. Legs crossed, okay, that’s better. Hands trembling. That’s less good. Right, what did Alice say? That Kady’d be going to this place called the between-world. Check. That if Quentin’s here—which Twenty-Three seemed to think he is? Then all she’s meant to be doing is some basic inception shit—that’s what Twenty-Three said, that it’d be exactly the same as when he zaps into someone’s dream for a quick chat (she and Penny had done a helluva lot more than chat whenever he’d zapped into her brain, Kady thinks fondly). But, right. This feels… Well. She hadn’t expected that being here would affect her so much. Twenty-Three had _not_ mentioned anything about weird shrinking rooms and the dread sunk low in her stomach that’s threatening to take her down with it. It feels more like she’s digging into some deep shit in Quentin’s brain. And more disturbingly, that maybe Quentin’s brain is digging right back? But, that’s… 

Kady loses her thread. Because, god, it’s sickening. Wanting to give it all up for a _guy_. No matter how much she loved— _loves_ him. Hands in her hair. It’s disgusting. Sam Cunningham would never have contemplated giving up her life to join some fucking guy in the Underworld. _It's not some fucking guy though. It’s Penny_. But, much to her disappointment, Kady isn’t Sam Cunningham. Kady had solved Sam’s cases, worn Sam’s clothes, and held Sam’s chin up, grim and resolute. But she’d never again feel that certainty of purpose, that everything she did was exactly what she was supposed to be doing. Sometimes she doesn’t know who she misses more. It’s easier to pretend with Sam, who only existed for those few short weeks, but Penny is—Kady feels the absence of him again and again every time she’s with Twenty-Three, who is so like her Penny when she looks at him, yet nothing like him at all when he looks back.

Her Penny. Penny who had _loved_ her and she’d—fuck. Slumped over, nearly crying. This isn’t—Kady doesn’t—this isn’t what she came here for. She came here to find out—something. Think. Kady sits up, again. Think. If there’s nothing here but this, a tiny, hollowed out space that was once practically the size of a banquet hall—then what? Is Quentin’s brain really so literal—the walls are closing in on him? Maybe it’s—the floor jolts. Kady blinks—opens her eyes. She’s in an elevator with—“Quentin! Holy _fuck_ , thank god you’re here.” (Now there’s a sentiment Kady would never have imagined feeling, and so acutely too, giddy relief rushing her veins.) “Wait, can you—” She waves a hand in front of his face. Of course.

The doors slide open and—

Holy shit. It’s Penny. In that flash suit she’d never really gotten used to, a far cry from the boho vests and hippie necklaces he’d worn when they first met. God, he looks—so fucking gorgeous it makes her ache, a fresh swell of grief rising in her throat. But there’s something different about him. She can’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps being dead himself has simply given Penny a different perspective on the afterlife, but something about his laidback smile and the casual way he greets Quentin pinches horribly at her insides. There’s no time to dwell on it, as Penny leads Quentin to a room labelled ‘Secrets Taken to the Grave.’

Well, that’s not fucking ominous at all.

Kady looks on in horrified silence as Quentin asks Penny a devastating question: “Did I do something brave to save my friends? Or did I finally find a way to kill myself?”

Fuck, but that’s brutal.

Her stomach is in shreds as Quentin watches them all singing around the bonfire. She can’t quite believe Penny would show Quentin this; it seems incredibly cruel. His face crumples when Eliot joins them. Kady looks away, overcome.

Penny leads Quentin away from the fire and there’s an odd ripple across Kady’s vision, as though the entire scene has been plunged underwater. Face wet with tears, Quentin turns back and stares at Kady, eyes cut sharp. “You’re not usually here.”

“You can see me now, huh?”

His eyes close, as if in defiance of her gaze. And then, Quentin cries, still and silent, arms by his sides, posture far better than it’d ever been when he was alive. There’s no fucking time for this shit. Kady asks, “Where’s the other door? Is that where I need to go?” but Quentin ignores her, turning away to follow Penny. “Wait!” She lurches forward of her own volition, only to be dragged back by some kind of invisible force. “Where are you going?” Desperate, she tries, “Where’s the other door, Quentin?”

He stops. “Why are you—” Frowns. “You’re not—” His eyes jerk to the bonfire scene, where Kady is sitting, singing, Julia’s hand in hers. “What’s—”

“You gonna get a sentence out anytime today?” Kady says, trying for gentle and getting pretty damn close, actually. 

“You’re really here.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I guess that’s kind of confusing for you.”

“Kind of?” His eyes narrow. “Doesn’t seem—”

Kady swallows her impatience. “What? Plausible? Dude, you’re a fucking magician. How many times has Penny incepted your ass by now?”

Quentin’s face doesn’t do any of the things Kady expects. It’s mostly blank, quiet. “Why would _you_ be here, though? No offence, but—”

She gives a half smile. “I know, right? There were some… eligibility criteria. I happened to be the most qualified for this, uh, particular quest.”

Quentin seems to accept this. “You’re really here,” he says again. Another frown, deeper, lines drawing his brow crooked; “ _I’m_ really here? Um… I mean... ” 

“Yup,” Kady agrees, “Both here, present and accounted.” She clears her throat. “So, about that door…?”

The frown drops. “There’s no other door.”

“Um, yeah there is. I saw it.”

“No. You can’t have it both ways,” he says flatly. “You open one door, you close another.”

“Okay,” she says, with a prickle of irritation. “I’ll make sure to close the first door behind me, if you just tell me how to get back there.”

Quentin’s lips tighten. He starts to say something, then stops. “You open one door, you close another,” he repeats, hands jerking out in frustration.

“I don’t—oh,” she says, catching on. “That’s how it’s meant to work; you open a door to the Underworld and close the door to the living. But you didn’t—the door to the living is still open. Right?”

Quentin says nothing; Kady tries again. “So, we just need to figure out a way to close the door to the Underworld.”

“No,” Quentin says, features hardening as he finally turns back to face her, a billowing darkness threatening to consume him as Penny and the bonfire recede from view. “You can’t make a decision and just undo it, you know?”

“Okay, but we’re magicians. We’re shitty at it sometimes, but we can fix some mistakes. We can undo some things.”

“Not this.”

“Why not?”

Quentin rolls his eyes with that derisive look he gets sometimes, the one that conveys his utter contempt for the failings of those around him to do whatever it is he’s deemed necessary for the good of the quest.

Kady sighs. Maybe she shouldn’t bring this up, after all, it doesn’t get more sappy and emotional than bringing your lost love back from the dead, right? She says it anyway; “Look, you of all people know that death can be… worked around. You brought Alice back.”

“You open one door, you close another.”

Fucking—this is infuriating. “But you _didn’t_ ,” she repeats. “That’s not what happened. You didn’t close the door—or open it? Fuck it, I’m not into this mind game shit.” Kady frowns, trying to keep her cool. “Okay, let’s go with… both doors are open—life and death? And yeah, one needs to be closed. Ideally, you know, death. But then, why haven’t you done it?” To Kady’s utter frustration, Quentin simply stands there, silent and impassive. She’s never had much patience for this kind of thing, having first learned to solve problems with her fists, then later using the magical equivalent. “For fuck’s sake, if you could be even just slightly less cryptic, that’d be super helpful right now.” Kady’s running out of ideas; she hadn’t anticipated anywhere near this much resistance, so used to Quentin’s almost aggressive enthusiasm when it came to any kind of quest. “You gotta help me out here, dude. I’m trying—everyone’s trying to save you. I should have said that before. Fuck. I’m doing this all wrong. I literally need you to help me on this fucking quest. Come on, I know you love this shit.”

Quentin shakes his head blurrily. The edges of him are fading into the black, and Kady doesn’t know how to keep him here, or if she even should.

“You can’t unring a bell, Kady. You of all people should know that.”

Kady freezes. _What the fuck?_ Okay, Julia must have told him about Reynard’s Hermit. That’s all. Except that somehow Kady knows deep in her bones that even if Julia _did_ tell Quentin? That’s not where he’s getting it from now. 

She forces a laugh; it comes out shakier than she’d like. “Wow, because that’s not creepy _at all._ ”

“You’re the one inside my head,” Quentin points out, and, yeah. That’s fair.

“Look, I know something about choices you can’t take back,” she says fiercely. “Maybe it’s impossible to undo what you did, maybe we’re already too late, I don’t know. But we’re trying. We all want you back, okay? Alice and Julia have been working around the clock, they couldn’t come with me but—”

The dark shadows are thickening ominously around Quentin’s inert form, and although the lines of terror on his face are becoming more pronounced by the second, and he just stands there, letting the shadows envelop him. Kady tries to remember what Alice said about turmoil and feelings and—shit. Quentin turns back—Penny’s reappeared, and Kady doesn’t know why, but it feels imperative that she stop Quentin from going with him.

“Wait! Where’s he taking you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know?” A puzzled expression breaks apart the anguish on his face. “You’re not normally here,” he mutters. “ _You can’t unring a bell_ —that’s new.” Quentin’s eyes fix on her, dark and hooded; suspicious. “That doesn’t belong to me.” He looks up at her, changes the subject. “I can’t take you with me, if that’s why you’re here.”

Kady wants to smash something but can’t see how it’d help. They’ve sent the wrong person, clearly, and it’s going to cost Quentin his life. Ever since she was a kid, Kady’s felt continually defeated by her failure to change the things that really matter, to really make a difference. Her mom and Marina. Julia and Reynard. Penny, her fucking Penny. And now, fucking Quentin.

Except—

“If you can’t unring a bell,” Kady asks slowly, thoughts dashing ahead as she stumbles to catch them. “Then why are we here at all? Why aren’t you just dead?”

Quentin flinches, as though he can’t stand to hear the word.

“You’re not really Quentin?” She throws a guess out there. “Because the Quentin I know wouldn’t be stuck here spouting cryptic bullshit, he’d be fighting to make it back to us any way he could.”

“Maybe you didn’t know me very well.”

Okay, fine. Kady can’t really argue with that.

Penny’s leading him away, and Kady doesn’t know what else to do but tag along with them to a large, dark room with sinister fluorescent strip lighting. It all seems a little low budget to Kady’s mind, but whatever—take it up with Hades. Penny hands Quentin a little yellow metro card. The white outline of a door appears, exactly as Alice had described. Quentin, determined, walks toward it and—stops. He stands by the doorway for a long time. So long in fact, that Kady forgets the mission for a moment, legs shaking as she makes her way over to Penny with a heightened awareness of every step she takes. Heart lurching, she comes to a standstill directly in front of him. But of course, he can’t see her. What the fuck did she expect?

Maybe nothing could truly have prepared her for seeing him like this, but still, a little warning would’ve been nice. Penny is, after all, the last person she expected to find in Quentin’s head, since that sort of thing usually works the other way around. He doesn’t move or notice her at all. Penny, gorgeous as fuck in his sharp grey suit, even in this god-awful bruise-blue lighting that’s washing out his skin—shit, she’d give anything to touch him; for Penny to grin down at her and wrap her up tight in his arms. To feel his fingers trace over her hips, steady and certain. Penny, grumbling and rolling his eyes. Penny, who for all his sneering and snarling, was the softest fucking guy she’d ever met. His big hands sinking into her hair as she kisses him, hot and tender. She’d give anything. Underneath all his bullshit, Penny just wanted someone to belong to someone. They both wanted to belong to each other so fucking badly and they _had_. Kady had held in her grasp the one thing she’s always wanted, but she just kept letting it go.

She’d give anything to touch him, but what does she even have to offer in return? There’s nothing to be done. Because Penny didn’t want to be saved. And isn’t that the kicker? He chose this. That’s what hurts the most, the bolt that screws tighter and tighter into her chest until she can’t breathe for missing him so much. Maybe he didn’t know what he was choosing; maybe he didn’t think he had any other choice. But he threw his life away instead of trying to live it—and god knows she’s not much better. Choosing to live isn’t exactly something she’s mastered, after all. Fuck, it’s ugly. The acid-spit of resentment in her gut. 

Because she’s here to save Quentin. Not Penny.

It’s almost physically painful to turn away from him, but Kady does it, eyes stinging as she forces herself to get back to the job she came here to do. As soon as Kady joins him in front of the doorway, Quentin says, “I’m him, but I’m not all of him. Me, I mean.” His brow wrinkles in confusion, as though the words are being pulled from somewhere beyond his comprehension.

Right. More cryptic shit. “Uh, okay,” she says, resisting the urge to look back at Penny again. Once more gripping the mala beads between finger and thumb, she asks, “Why not?”

“Because I’m halfway to dying again, and you’ve shown up for some reason, and minds are weird?” He curls his hands inside his sleeves. “You’re trying to save me, right?”

“I already told you that. I’m trying to—everyone is.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Quentin says, eyes bright with fresh tears. “I can’t, okay. I can’t go back; I can’t do it anymore.”

Well, this is definitely a wrinkle in the plan. “What do you mean?” she asks carefully. “You don’t want to come back? To the people who love you?”

Quentin looks agonised. “I can’t.”

“Okay. You can’t go through the door to the Underworld, and you can’t come back through to us. You’re stuck. I mean, we knew that already.” Kady laughs humourlessly, hands in her hair. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.” She inhales sharply. “Look—”

“This is the point of no return,” Quentin says, right before _he fucking vanishes, what the fuck_? Kady sighs, waits, expecting to follow, to witness whatever happens to Quentin next, but instead she finds herself taking another step toward the door. Penny remains frozen, waiting for Quentin to move on. The lure of the door is overpowering; the person she wants more than anything is stood behind, and the way to reach him is right here in front of her. It’s just one more step.

Kady waits for a long time.

“You can’t,” Quentin says eventually, appearing beside Kady and startling her. “You can’t because I can’t. Even though part of me has wanted to my whole life.”

Okay, first of all, Jesus _fuck_ , Quentin. And second, _seriously_ fuck off with the mind meld shit, that is _not_ fucking cool. Her pathetic low-key death wish really isn’t something she wants to share with the class. God, Twenty-Three had _not_ prepared her for any of this bullshit. Being in Quentin’s brain is freaky enough to begin with, but it’s so much freakier that he somehow seems to have access to hers as well. Pushing her uneasiness aside and swallowing around the grit in her throat, Kady remembers what Quentin had said to Penny in the Secrets room. “In the Mirror Realm that day,” she says slowly. “Is that what you wanted?”

Quentin shrugs. “I did, and I didn’t.” He sighs deeply, mouth drawing into a thin, unhappy line. “I’m me, but I’m not all of me.” He gestures vaguely at the outline of the door. “This is the point of no return.”

“Seriously? Would you cut that shit out?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I never said that to you, did I? I’m so sorry about Penny. I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit to even think about what you must be going through. I’m sorry you can’t be with him.”

It’s such an unexpected thing to hear, especially in this context, and Kady’s oddly touched. “Uh, thanks. That’s—I really appreciate that, actually. When Twenty-Three came along, it felt like everyone was just happy to accept him as a substitute. Like no one cared about the real Penny except me.”

“We didn’t,” Quentin says. “Not enough. Penny didn’t exactly make it easy for people to care about him.”

The hollow scream that’s lived inside Kady for as long as she can remember is clamouring at her ribcage, but it’s the truth, and she can’t deny it. After all, she’d said pretty much the same thing after Penny died. And she hadn’t always found it easy to care about Penny either. Not enough. Though, perhaps what’s most infuriating about Quentin’s assessment of Penny, is the way it also applies just as easily to Kady herself. Prickly, hard, bitch. Always pushing people away, never letting anyone close, all those clichés. _Stop it_ , she thinks harshly. 

This isn’t what she’s here for.

“We can’t ever leave ourselves behind though, can we?”

“Could you not do that?” A shiver draws its way down from the nape of her neck. “Look, I know I can’t be with Penny. It’s too late, blah fucking whatever. But it’s not too late for you to be with—Alice?” Quentin winces. “Or not. I don’t know what to fucking say right now.” Kady scrunches her hands through her hair in frustration.

“I don’t want to live for another person.”

“No, I—I get that.”

“I know you do,” Quentin says, so gently that Kady wants to punch him, and even as she tries to stifle the thought, she knows he’s heard it.

“It’s okay.” He almost laughs, a self-deprecating slant to the set of his shoulders. “I want to punch me a lot of the time too. And hey, at least you got a good right hook in that time, remember?”

Kady does laugh then, at the absurdity, and then in despair as she blinks and finds herself right back where she started in the dreary off-white smog by the two identical grey doors.

Is this it? Kady’s certain she’s found nothing of use to Alice and Julia.

“Penny?”

She tries again, yelling out into the great white expanse. Nothing. Okay then. Despite her failure, she’d been relieved at the thought of escaping the hellscape of Quentin Coldwater’s brain. Instead, Kady resigns herself to the second door, pushing it open with a deep breath and bracing herself once more.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kady groans. “Why even have two doors if they both go to the same place?”

It’s worse this time. The walls close and close, exactly as they did in the first room she’d entered. But this room _feels_ different. Bitter, almost cloying. Her every cell is consumed by a burnt-out lethargy; all Kady can do is wait for the world to shrink around her. Her thoughts jitter and perish before she can make sense of them. She’s so goddamn tired. Nothing will ever change; she is and always will be alone. Kady tries to sit up again in a meditative posture, desperate to regain some sense of control, but her body won’t obey. There’s something about this place, something warm and painfully familiar; living in the dark and always fighting, always fucking up. So goddamn tired. Her eyes close and she can’t imagine ever opening them again. Part of her knows this isn’t right, this isn’t _her_ , but when she tries to think of what to do, Kady finds she can’t picture much of anything. Trying to envisage any sort of future (Penny, her fucking Penny) is fruitless; dull and greyed out, evaporating before she can reach the borders of anything solid. This too is comfortable, and so she remains for a long time; caught between the urgency of the future and her failure to bring it into being.

“Kady. Kady. Wake up, Kady. You can’t stay here.”

Skull-shattering noise, incessant. She ignores it.

“Kady!”

“Wha—I’m not asleep.” When she pries open her eyes, Quentin’s terrified gaze meets hers.

“Thank fuck. Okay, look, we’ve got to get you out of here.”

Kady groans, rubbing at her eyes. “Where’s here? What the fuck is all this?”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Quentin says, looking wholly unconvinced.

“Yeah, I dunno about that.” But sure enough, the fog is dissipating, her deadened thoughts stirring to life.

“It’ll be okay,” Quentin repeats, a little more assuredly. “But it never lasts.”

“Right, the spell is mending you.” Kady shakes her head groggily. She feels—

—like something vital is being renewed, shafts of light rippling woozily through a crack in the curtains. And maybe she’s not, like, actually better. Maybe nothing will ever be truly right or good. But—Penny’s eyes crinkling in the corners when he laughed. Their lips meeting in soft, easy kisses. Tangled in the sheets, lazy and content in each other’s arms—god, Penny was _so_ fucking fantastic in bed it’s unreal. His strong hands sliding over her shoulders, wrapping her up tight like he never wanted to let her go. It washes over her in a vibrant stream of clarity; it happened, it was real, and yeah, he’s gone, but her heart will always hold him dear. And wherever Kady goes next, he’ll come too. She’s gonna honour the fuck out of Penny. By living her fucking life. By devouring hot slices of pepperoni pizza from the little place in Brooklyn they’d stumble into between Penny’s library collections. Tipping her head back in the sun and raising a goddamn glass to the person who loved her best. The person who once told Kady that watching her slam some asshole with a blast of battle magic was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and then made her come three times fucking her into his bedroom wall. Yeah. Good fucking times were had. But she’s more than Penny’s girlfriend, and it’s time to act like it. Kady hadn’t wanted to join _some fucking guy_ in the Underworld. She wanted _Penny_ because he was _home_ , the only one she’s ever had. Maybe Penny’s not her future anymore, but she’s sure as shit gonna have one. She’s gonna have cold beers on hot days and sing in the shower at the top of her voice just because she knows how damn good she sounds. She’s gonna hang with her best bitch—fuck, _yes_ —

Kady feels—like something vital is being renewed, punching its way through her chest: curtains flung open, an explosion of pink and orange breaking in the dawn— 

Because Kady’s got Julia. 

Her heart quickens at the memory of the two of them laughing—really laughing, at something dumb and not even that funny at all, but Julia’d got the giggles and her laughter was so infectious that Kady couldn’t help but join in; heads thrown back, cheeks aching, tears in their eyes. Yes. Julia’s righteous indignation and relentless drive, face all lit up, cheeks dimpling with one of her devious smiles. All of them, in fact; the whole gang working on a quest—not so much the death-defying parts, but the rest of it. The camaraderie, the purpose. Flames snapping at her fingertips, fireworks struck under her skin. Even if it’s not quite Kady’s purpose, there’s a promise that she’ll find it one day—no, that she’ll make it, herself, it’ll be hard, but she _wants_ to—

“Right, purpose, sure.” Quentin interrupts, his laughter short and tinged with bitterness. “And fine, there’s some good shit, I guess. But it won’t last.”

“Maybe not,” she says, shaken by the sheer _rightness_ of what she’d just experienced, the promise and potential thrumming in her veins. God, she’d been completely subsumed, deeply sunk in the riverbed—so much for keeping her shit tight. “It’s something though, isn’t it?” Kady folds her legs beneath her easily, the effort it’d taken to move only minutes earlier now seeming remote. “Look, I don’t have much time.”

“If anything, there’s too much time. Life is pretty damn long, when you think about it.”

Kady studies him for a moment. “You asked Penny if you’d finally found a way to kill yourself. Did you?”

“I mean, obviously not,” he says with a trace of resentment. “You’re right. You need to go.”

“When you cast the spell in the Mirror Realm, what did you want to happen?”

Quentin grimaces but it spills out of him like he can’t help but say it. “I wanted to fix things. I wanted to stop Everett, I wanted to be—” He shakes his head in a quick little jerk. “I wanted to close my eyes for a moment, but it felt like I never got the chance. And I knew that when I did, I’d never want to open them again. I don’t have a good answer, okay? I was just fucking tired.”

“You were tired,” she repeats. “You felt… trapped.” A thick ribbon of dread unravels in her stomach but Kady’s not certain it belongs to her. In fact, it _definitely_ doesn’t. “You cast that spell, and now you’re _here_ …” The grey room, the dark, the stillness. The relief of life and vitality flooding back in, but never for long. “You cast the spell and it _hit you_ —shit.” Everything she’s been feeling belonged to Quentin first; the grey room in which the days-and-weeks-and-months-and- _years, it’s been so many years now_ are chewed up and spat out, sucked dry of their marrow by some unseen predator waiting, always, in the long grass; time crumples underfoot and life gets smaller and smaller with each passing minute. Nothing will ever be okay, things can never get better. Until, of course, they do. The bonfire is lit, sparks catch and quiver. The future is an open plain, a panoramic vista of verdant hills and gloss-blue skies. Exams are passed, hair is washed, plans are made; the days-and-weeks-and-months breathe easy now there’s no predator in sight—if there ever was? It hardly matters; time unfurls, freed from its cage. 

Kady wouldn’t ever have expected to find common ground with sullen nerdboy Quentin Coldwater—and somewhat resents the grudging kinship she feels for him now, stuck, in this place of his own making. Always in the dark, always fighting, always fucking up. Yeah. She can relate, maybe, just a tiny bit. Everything Kady’s been feeling belonged to Quentin first, but it isn’t unknown to her. Kady _knows_ what it’s like to want out of her own life. Because although she’s truly grateful to Julia for saving her after the overdose, there’ll always be a small part of Kady that wishes she could have simply let it all go. But that’s not important now. What’s important is that everything Kady’s been feeling all stems from the moment of Quentin’s casting. It _has_ to be that—“Let me try something, okay?”

Taking Quentin’s shrug as permission, Kady casts a Revelation charm, making a circle with her index finger and thumb and looking through the gap. “Holy shit. Dude, you’re lit up like a Christmas tree.”

“What?” Quentin frowns. “What can you see?”

She can see an absolute fuckton of magic; golden gossamer spidering out in clusters over every inch of his skin. At the centre of Quentin’s chest is the heart of the rebounded spell, all glittering potential, with a dark fracture at its core. Kady gives a clipped little sigh, turning her hand, forefinger and thumb pressing sharply together and pointing down. “You’re right-handed, yeah?”

“Yeah, but what can you—”

“Flatten your hand,” Kady says, and Quentin does, mouth turning down sulkily. “Palm up, yeah, that’s—okay, yeah.” The original spell Quentin cast is a gold-bright shimmer, a delicate filigree wrapping around his fingertips and sparking over his wrist. A clean line from desire to its object. Beautiful and simple in its execution, exactly as it should be.

The rebounded spell is nothing like its original. It’s not _broken_ , not exactly. Huge and sprawling, its aim is fucked. Because magic is just wanting shit badly enough that you’ll tear the world a new one to get it. And Quentin’s magic wants—to fix things, just like Quentin had. And it wants to end things... just like Quentin had.

“Holy fucking hell. Okay, I probably should’ve worked this out sooner, to be honest, but your brain has fully rattled my shit. Anyway, I think I know what happened. It’s pretty damn simple, actually. When that spell hit you, it wanted to mend you. But part of you didn’t want to be mended. Part of you wanted to die,” Kady says bluntly, carefully eyeing Quentin’s expression, which remains oddly flat. “Wanted it so badly that it fucked with the spell, split your original intent right down the middle. It _should_ have just mended you—there was enough power in the blast. But your internal circumstances are fully out of whack—at the moment of casting, you wanted two completely different things and that conflict changed the course of the mending spell. And now, here you are. You made it all the way to the Underworld. But you can’t go through that door—because part of you _did_ want to survive. And that’s the part that’s still fuelling the spell. Your magic wants what you want—and you wanted two irreconcilable things. That’s why you’re stuck.”

Quentin’s head slumps forward, shoulders hunching in shame. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to?” He looks at Kady. “I’m sorry.”

Kady hums. “Don’t be—this is good. Or at least, it’s good to know. I’ll get Al—the others, to uh. Check it out. But I think you’re right. You can’t unring that bell or close the door you opened. We’re gonna figure it out, okay? Everyone’s on the case. Listen, though, what you said—you don’t mean it? About not wanting to come back. Or, shit. I guess part of you really does.”

He doesn’t say anything for too long of a moment, eyes wide and bright with fear. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says, pushing his hair back from his face. “I didn’t, I swear.”

“Well, yeah, I didn’t exactly think you’d done it on purpose.”

“I wanted to, though. I thought.” His eyes slowly close, a quiet resignation slips over his face. “It’s so embarrassing—I can’t.” One corner of his mouth twitches; a ghost of a wry smile that might’ve been. “I wanted—I just thought—there was a solution right there in front of me. I could fix it. I _did_ fix it. Didn’t I? And—”

He doesn’t say anything more but Kady hears the echo of Everett’s words rattling in Quentin’s skull: _You’ll go down a hero_ slurs into Quentin’s monotone, jammed on repeat: _you’ll die a hero you’ll die you’ll die a hero a hero-hero-hero…_

“Jesus, Quentin.” 

Quentin opens his eyes. Sighs. “I know. Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kady agrees. “Pretty fucking dumb. I wasn’t there, I don’t know what went down. But nobody needed you to be a hero. They all—” she rolls her eyes—“ _We_ all just want you back.”

He’s too still, too silent, and Kady keeps talking, “Look, things got really messed up at the end there, with Eliot and—ah, everything, you were—”

“ _Eliot_ ,” Quentin says urgently, “is he—?” 

Oh. Shit. Kady tries once more to let the thoughts and feelings flow unencumbered through the stream, but of course, she’s in Quentin’s brain, where every motherfucking thing gets snagged on the rocks. The image of Eliot slips through, hollow-eyed and empty, and she knows Quentin’s seeing it too, Eliot’s hands shaking, shoulders collapsed, buried by grief. _Shitshitshit—_

Quentin, looking as wrecked as he’d been while watching Eliot by the bonfire, drags his hands over his face in quiet despair. “Fuck, no, that’s not—” 

“Ah, hey,” Kady says, reaching an awkward hand out, then thinking better of it. “Look, just—hang in there, okay? We’re gonna fix this—uh, what the hell?”

Quentin’s edges blur, the shake of his head frantic. “Kady,” he says, as the room sags and swallows them, “What the fuck have I done?”

*

Kady opens her eyes to find Twenty-Three staring at her. It’s very fucking weird to see him—now. After—everything. That just happened. Seeing _her Penny_ again, and now, here’s this _imposter_ , this _usurper_ —

Yeah, okay. That’s not fair. But who gives a fuck about fairness? Not this goddamn universe, that’s for sure.

“Yo, dude. You in there?”

“Yeah,” Kady says, uncrossing her legs and stretching out. God, it feels good to be able to move—her body obeying commands without her having to yell them repeatedly. It’s not like—Kady shakes her head. Like what?

“What the hell happened to you?” Twenty-Three demands. “You could barely move for shit when I found you.”

“You found me? I don’t even remember. I was looking for you, but that was before—”

Alice clears her throat. “Sorry, just—did it work?”

“I saw him, yeah.”

A collective murmur spreads around the room. “Well?” says Margo with her trademark impatience. “Tell us what happened already.”

And so Kady does. Or, most of it, anyway. She can’t quite describe how awful it’d been and doesn’t try. She manages to explain the weird mind meld, how at times Quentin had seemed to occupy her consciousness as much as she had his. 

“Always was a leaky motherfucker,” Penny mutters, folding his arms. 

Alice is making notes, her expression carefully blank for the most part, but when Kady tells them her hypothesis and describes what she’d seen of Quentin’s mending spell, Alice frowns. “So, you think that Quentin’s state of mind altered the circumstances and caused the loop?”

“If Quentin really was as conflicted as Kady described, it could make sense that his internal circumstances affected the casting,” Julia says slowly, looking increasingly horrified. 

“I told you, I saw the spell. It was split right down the centre.”

“This changes everything.” Alice has gone horribly pale and still. “We—we thought it was the spell—and it is, but. It only happened because Quentin was—he was _suicidal_ —” her voice lowers to a whisper like she can barely say it.

“Well,” Kady says warily. “Yeah, but there’s more to it than just that, right? That’s the whole point, he was conflicted. He wanted to live, too.”

But it doesn’t seem to register. Alice stands up, pacing erratically, her heels drumming across the laminate. “He _knew_ ,” she says, the words shredded from her throat. “It tore him apart and he knew that it would, and I’ll never forgive him for that, but the fact that he wanted it?” Fists clenching, Alice slumps back down.

Eliot untangles his limbs from Margo’s and slides to the other end of the couch to sit next to Alice. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Q had depression for a long time, you know? He wanted to be able to live, but his brain could be a dick sometimes.”

“Don’t make excuses for him. Just, don’t.”

Nobody seems to know what to say; Kady’s certainly not going to intervene. Eliot places a careful hand on Alice’s shoulder. “I didn’t understand what it was like for him, not really. But I do know what it’s like to only want to live in principle, and to pitch yourself into a fight without really caring what the outcome is. Alice, you cast the Rhinemann knowing what would happen—”

“I didn’t want to die! It was the only choice I had that made any sense. What Quentin did… it’s not the same. It’s not. He could’ve let Everett have the bottle. He should’ve—done anything. Anything else.”

“It’s not the same,” Eliot agrees. “But we’ve all thrown ourselves in the line of fire. Penny, you—uh, the other you, jumped into a world called the Poison Room for Christ’s sake. The only reason I went to Fillory in the first place? Is because I thought I’d die, and I didn’t give a shit.” More gently, he says, “A few of us in this room know what it’s like, one way or another, to have a somewhat precarious investment in being alive.”

Kady says “Yeah,” at the same time as Julia, and the apartment falls into a thick silence.

“I don’t blame him,” Alice says in a near-whisper, and then her voice pitches, frantic, her eyes filling with tears. “Eliot, I don’t—”

“Shh,” he says, sliding an arm around Alice and pulling her into a hug as she starts sobbing into his shoulder. “I know, okay? It doesn’t matter. It’s okay to be pissed at Q. I’m so fucking furious with him sometimes, I can hardly—” His voice breaks and Kady has to look away from this painfully intimate moment. “Just tell us what to do and we’ll save him. Then you can tell him yourself how mad you are.”

Alice gives a shaky sort of laugh, wiping at the corners of her eyes. She glances up at Eliot gratefully. “Right,” she says, all business once more. “Julia and I need to do some research; we’ll keep you posted.”

*

No one says it, but even as they fight desperately to bring Quentin back, everyone’s afraid it might come to nothing but heartbreak all over again. Eliot shouldn’t get his hopes up. Nothing good ever comes of that. But despite the years he’s spent perfecting the art of suppression, Eliot’s hopes are unspooling; a mass of knotted up roots are shuddering to some kind of life and there’s little he can do to curb their sprawl, the ugly stalks stubbornly twisting their way through thick layers of dirt.

Quentin might really be coming back. And then what? It’s tricky to imagine what he might say to Quentin, especially knowing he’d gotten back together with Alice before he died. By all accounts, even Alice’s, Quentin’s motivations in the months before he died had revolved almost entirely around saving Eliot. But he’d chosen her. They’d had an actual relationship, on this actual planet, in this actual timeline.

It doesn’t stop Eliot thinking about it. He hates himself for it, but that’s never stopped his flights of self-destructive fancy before, and it certainly isn’t going to now. In the happy place, after he’d broken free from the monster for those few precious seconds, Eliot spent a long time imagining what would happen when he got his body back. It was always kind of blurry, as though he couldn’t work out what would be realistic, and so the details were hazily drawn, but usually he’d open his eyes to bright sunlight and Quentin would just… be there. Really there. It had never truly felt like something that would happen, but he’d replayed this part over and over: he’s reaching for Quentin, and Quentin’s reaching for him, and Eliot drags him down into a heart-stopping kiss that would say everything he couldn’t.

Sometimes, the kiss broke everything open and Eliot would talk and talk, peeling back the gruesome layers of what was really quite ordinary pain. (He’d never quite gotten as far as what he might actually _say_ though, and isn’t that telling?)

This time, he thinks they probably wouldn’t kiss right away. That’d been some sentimental crap leached into his brain from years of watching shitty rom-coms in which guys like Quentin get their happily ever after with girls like Alice. And guys like Eliot, well. He’s never quite fit the picture, has he? Eliot’s seen _Brokeback Mountain_ , okay? And he’s not ashamed to admit that he bawled his eyes out over _A Single Man_ , clutching Margo’s hand and blaming it on too many Margaritas. So, he’s perfectly aware that guys like him _don’t_ _get_ the happily ever after. Not traditionally. Not statistically. No, guys like Eliot die tragically of AIDS in their lover’s arms, or else stuff themselves back in the closet, drowning in misery and sin. And Eliot’s always loved a good tragedy, so how could he possibly miss his chance at a starring role?

(Yes, he’s being a dramatic bitch, and yes, he’s fully aware of that fact.)

So, if they kissed at all—which is beginning to seem less likely with each passing minute—it’d be a much more cautious thing, built up in slow, careful glances and hopeful words. Yes, they’d definitely talk first (though he still doesn’t know, does he, what those words might be), until Quentin’s soft half-smile quirked at the corners of his mouth, and then Eliot would kiss him. Maybe. Either way, it was all considerably quieter than his earlier fantasies, though no less urgent. Eliot’s more certain of his own feelings now than ever before, and simultaneously, far less convinced of Quentin’s. It’d all happened such a long time ago. Proof of concept—Eliot cringes when he remembers that day in the park. Quentin had probably long gotten over it by then, come to his senses, realised how much better off he was without someone like Eliot—

Laura’s voice interrupts his self-pitying monologue, as it now so often does. Eliot doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or—oh, fine, it’s probably a good thing that she can put the brakes on his wallowing even in absentia. _What do you think is happening here?_ she’d ask, and—

Maybe Quentin had laughed about it later, or never truly meant it in the first place, just a crazy residual burst of emotion. Worse still, and most likely, was that he’d meant it at the time, but simply no longer felt the same. But then—

_What bearing do those movies have on your life?_

(Seriously, can’t Eliot have a moment of self-indulgence without having to analyse every last second?)

They don’t have any bearing. Obviously. Eliot’s not a sad cowboy and he’s not a lonely British professor. He’s not playing a part (except for all the parts he no longer knows how to play). But—a thousand stories, all told the same way. Stories leave their mark. Stories, he knows (he knows because _Quentin told him—_ over and over again), they tell us where we’ve been and where we might be able to go. They tell us what’s possible.

Laura talks about stories too. The ugly threads of small-town homophobia sewn so tightly into his bones that he could spend a lifetime unpicking them, but he’ll never be able to disentangle their shape from his. _Fucking fag_ twists into _there’s something wrong with me,_ those loops become _nobody could ever want me,_ all snarling into the fucked-up pattern of _Quentin could never really—_

It’s hideously embarrassing when you break Eliot’s story down to its bones. 

The Laura he’s conjured says, _Those are the stories you’ve been told, the ones you’ve been unconsciously retelling._ _What stories did Quentin tell you? What did he make possible?_

Quentin stumbled and stammered his way into the story Eliot was telling about himself, the one about decadence and deviance and drinking himself into the ground. And in another life, Quentin _told_ him everything he needed to know. But in this life Eliot hadn’t been able to trust it. Quentin _told_ him— 

_I dunno anymore about what we’re supposed to be doing here. It’s been, what, nearly twenty years? And I’m still wondering, you know. I thought before we came here that I’d given up on all that white masculinity Western heroic destiny crap—here, Quentin laughs at himself, rolling his eyes in a way that Eliot has always found painfully endearing—I very obviously had_ not _given that up. But, yeah, anyway. What I’m trying to say is—fuck the quest. It’s just us now, and I wouldn’t trade what we have for anything. Not some blaze of glory or whatever stupid shit I used to want my story to be. Because you’re everything I could ever want, and everything I thought was impossible became possible because of you. Everything I am now started with you, and we’re gonna finish it together—and I don’t mean this dumb puzzle. We’re the story. You and me. Beginning, middle, and end. I want it all._

Turns out somebody had wanted him all along, but it hadn’t fit the narrative Eliot’s always known. 

_You have a brother of the heart—_

Two stories swerve and crash, two stories become one.

Quentin told him: _I think about it all the time. About us._ Eliot could’ve had everything he wanted. _They were good years, don’t you think?_ Or, well. Everything he wants. Now, here. Present tense. Because back then… Had it been the case that Eliot simply hadn’t known what he wanted? Not exactly, not entirely. Had he in fact known precisely what he wanted and consequently done everything in his power to make sure he couldn’t have it? That doesn’t feel quite right either, though he is, Laura is teaching him, extraordinarily skilled when it comes to acting against his own interests and calling it a win. _Quentin tastes like sweet plum wine, lips stained red and—_

What he wants, very badly, is a new story (who wouldn’t?). He wants Quentin to have a new story—or at least a chance to finish the old one. He wants a boy, a boy who’ll love him back, a boy who’ll love him the way he’s always wanted to be loved; with fierce tenderness, with pride. He wants to watch dumb movies curled up under soft blankets. To hold hands. Heart jumping, stomach dropping. The quiet press of Quentin’s thumb over his palm. 

_I can’t give you that domestic shit that you want_ , Eliot had said. What a fucking dumbass. 

_I’m not asking you for whatever it is you think I am._ At the time he’d been so sure that he knew exactly what Quentin wanted—

That Quentin wanted—

Stomach turning, Eliot can’t finish the thought.

_He tastes like sweet plum wine—_

_You feel amazing (Quentin’s eyes glint, dark and ravenous)_. _You’re amazing_ , he’d said, and sure, Eliot had been inside him at the time, and sure, this isn’t a movie, but—it has to mean something. Maybe.

_You’re not exactly my only option (the wounded look in his eyes that Eliot had put there and, also, it’s the truth, isn’t it?)._

Or, whatever. Maybe it doesn’t mean what Eliot now so badly wants it to mean.

_He tastes like sweet plum wine, lips stained red, eyes dark and wanting._

It doesn’t matter if Eliot’s missed his shot—he just wants Quentin back.

*

“Our original hypothesis was that the loop was caused by the Mirror World destroying Quentin’s body, and that the mending spell repaired the damage,” says Alice, distracted as she flips through the Compendium on Planetary Circumstances. “Two opposing forces cancelling each other out.”

“Right,” Julia says through a mouthful of toast. “But instead…” She frowns. “Take me through the variables again.”

They’ve been through this many, many times. But Alice obliges, ticking them off as clinically as she can, determined not to let her emotions get the best of her again. She does know it was horribly unfair, her little outburst. It’d hurt, that’s all. That Quentin had made her watch him die. That he hadn’t wanted to live ( _for you? why should he? Don’t be so fucking selfish)_. He hadn’t wanted to live for any of them, apparently; not Julia, not Margo, not even Eliot _(yeah, don’t pretend this is about them)_.

“Mirror world, minor mending spell—cast by a magician whose discipline is repair of small objects, imbuing it with more power. A magician whose internal circumstances were so profoundly conflicted in the moment of casting that they altered the course of the mending spell.” Alice’s staged detachment begins to falter. “The truth of his desires were split, and so when the mending spell hit him, it couldn’t finish the job.”

Julia hauls a new stack of probably-useless Brakebills library books onto the kitchen table. She says, in that blunt way of hers that Alice rather admires, “He didn’t quite want to die, and he didn’t quite want to live. And now he’s stuck, not quite doing either of those things.”

God, they’ve been over and over it, and it never stops hurting any less. Alice taps her pen in a precise cadence against her knuckles. “A magically sustained loop of indecision.”

“And we need to break the loop.”

“But.” Alice shakes her head, picking up and setting her coffee down without taking a sip. “We can’t do that without breaking the spell for good. Hmm.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“The spell is feeding off intent—currently Quentin’s. And it’s stuck in the moment he cast because, obviously, he died. There’s no way of inputting new intent or changing the circumstances of the spell because Quentin isn’t alive for long enough… I don’t know. There has to be a way.”

“If the mending spell worked… Maybe we can cast another one?”

“On what?”

Julia sighs, going back to the notes she’s already gone back to about a thousand times. “Well… maybe we don’t need to cast it on _him_. We just need to override Quentin’s intent with ours. Right? He was conflicted. But we aren’t.”

Alice is dubious. “Are you saying if we want it badly enough, we can make it happen?”

“Isn’t that all magic is in the first place?” Julia’s flipping through her notebook, face creased in concentration. She looks up, a spark of possibility in her eyes. “We wish and make it so.”

It’s perhaps too naïve an assessment, but one which recalls Mayakovsky’s rambling monologues in the early days of Brakebills South during their period of enforced silence when they’d been herded into gloomy classrooms as the captive audience for his prattling theories on the essence and purpose of magic.

_When a magician wishes to cast a spell, they simply cast it. When he wishes to fly, he simply flies. We are going to submerge the language of spellcasting deep into who you are, so that you have it always, wherever you are, whenever you need it._

For a moment, Alice’s anger evaporates, replaced by a deep sadness at the thought of what Quentin had wished for.

Annoyingly, Eliot’s right about her, though not in the way he thinks. Because Alice had wanted to escape from herself once. She’d been willing to lose Quentin—eager, even, to forget that either of them had ever existed. Alice doesn’t wish she’d done it, not really, but she still thinks about it. She knows exactly what it’s like to want to obliterate herself, and yet, she’s livid with Quentin for actually doing it. The coexistence of these two incompatible truths sits uncomfortably in her chest.

_(What a goddamn hypocrite you are.)_

While Alice blinks back tears, Julia’s brandishing her notes excitedly, the spark in her eyes now flaring with genuine hope for perhaps the first time since they dug themselves into this research hole. 

“We know the circumstances of the original casting now. We can calibrate the exact spell Quentin used and override it. See?” Julia points to a hastily scribbled equation. “It’s not about reversing or countering it—we work _with_ the existing spell, not against it. But we can tip the scales—” Julia turns the page, and yes, Alice can see it, this could really— “Quentin’s internal circumstances wanted two irreconcilable things. We can reconcile that for him since he can’t do it himself. And collaborative magic can power it. We can do this.”

“We can except for one thing—”

“Shit.” Julia’s face falls as she catches up and starts rifling through the papers again. Alice is always the one making people’s faces do that. Pointing out flaws in the plan, saying _listen_ and _wait a minute_ and _maybe we shouldn’t_.

It’d been so liberating to instead say _fuck it_ and _let’s find out_ and _consequences be damned_. Becoming a Niffin really had been one of the best things to ever happen to her. Stone lodged in her heart, Alice remembers thinking that about Quentin once too. When she’d finally given in to his advances, finally let herself just try to be happy for once—well. She had been. Really, stupidly, ridiculously happy in a way Alice hadn’t thought possible since Charlie had died. For those few brief weeks Alice had felt herself beginning to unfurl, every day spent with Quentin laced with the potential for her to become someone she’d barely recognised but liked a whole lot more than the person she actually was deep down. _Too smart for her own good_ and _who does she think she is_ and _what a bitch_.

But she’d loved being Quentin’s Alice. At first, anyway. She can see now that it wouldn’t have lasted, even without the cheating. Quentin needed more than Alice could give—he deserved more.

_(You deserved more.)_

They both did.

Alice snaps out of it. Julia hasn’t noticed her slide into sentimental bullshit, thankfully, and is in fact lost in her own cloud of undoubtedly much more productive thought, mumbling to herself and tugging absently on a long strand of hair. “There’s no way, is there?” Julia asks, mouth downturned. “It’s not possible to cast in the Mirror Realm. But it can’t be. Nothing is impossible, not really…”

“It’s not impossible to cast, but it can’t be controlled or predicted, and even if we could, there’s no way to get anything close to a guarantee that the spell would work. It might even make things—worse.” Alice frowns. “And we can’t cast it here either. The circumstances are all wrong.”

Julia slams her book shut. “There has to be another way. This is the closest we’ve gotten to anything resembling… anything.” She stands up, hands on the table, fingers tapping a dissonant rhythm. “What if,” Julia says, starting strong. “We cast here and make adjustments—not, not the _wrong_ circumstances, but _different_ circumstances, that could—” here she wavers, voice trailing—“could work to the same ends?”

“We could try,” Alice says, though she already knows it won’t work, so what’s the point in pretending otherwise?

“Wait.” Julia turns in a rapid motion, knocking a cascade of papers to the floor. Alice waits.

“Wait, wait—wait.” She paces the length of the apartment; once, twice, three times, and Alice waits, hands crushing into nervous fists.

“We can’t cast here,” Julia says slowly. “But what if there’s a world out there where we can?”

“Oh!” Alice’s eyes light up, the blunt cut of her hair whirling as she leaps up in excitement. “Julia, that’s it. I’ve got an idea. It’s, ah. Kind of crazy—”

“I mean, uh. Obviously.” Julia’s laughter sounds wild, almost unreal.

“So, so you’re right. We can’t cast in the Mirror Realm.” Julia’s looking at her with such intensity and anticipation that Alice freezes, her chest snarled up with fear. What if they can’t? What if they shouldn’t? She doesn’t want to say it unless it can be done; they won’t ever know if it can be done unless she says it.

“I—I don’t know if it’s possible,” she hedges.

“Just tell me already.”

“What you said, about casting in another world—Quentin told me Umber made a pocket world, and we’d need more than that, it’d be a _lot_ bigger, but the library has batteries, I think, but I don’t know, I don’t know…”

“Alice! I swear to god.” Julia’s half laughing, frustration nettling beneath the surface. “What’re you talking about?”

Alice’s mouth twists. “We need another world, like you said.”

“One with the right circumstances,” says Julia, eyes widening as Alice rushes out the idea before she can change her mind, a new plan taking shape in the back and forth between them.

*

“Julia, you cannot be serious right now.” Penny shakes his head, lip curling in disbelief, “This is some impossible shit, I’m telling you.”

Sat across the kitchen table from him, Margo smirks. “Maybe you don’t know this about us cause you’re from another timeline and all, but pulling off impossible shit is kinda our brand.”

“Ha,” Kady chimes in, spinning in her chair to grab another handful of chips. “Fucking up impossible shit is more like it.”

“Yes! Thank you, Kady. Someone with an ounce of goddamn sense around here.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it.” Kady rolls her eyes, and Penny throws his hands up, muttering inaudibly to himself.

Josh tries to mediate. “Guys, we’ve come up with some batshit plans before, but this…?” Nobody listens.

“If it’s how we get Quentin back, then we’re doing it,” Eliot says firmly, and this quells any opposition; even Penny falls in line.

Alice grits her teeth. There’s work to be done.

*

It takes all of them, just as Alice had known it would. For Umber, creating a new world had been a triviality, an amusing distraction from the tedium of life in Vancouver, but for them, it’s the kind of magic that’d drain the life from their bodies if they weren’t careful.

They gut the master bedroom, stripping everything out and leaving it bare so they can incant from the ground up. Even with fiddly layers of protective wards and enchantments in place, the amount of energy it’ll take to bring life to an actual world—even a temporary one, even one that already exists—is truly insane.

Working long hours into the night, it takes Alice and Julia just under two weeks to draw up the equations, and another couple of days for Kady and Josh to source several obscure ingredients for the modified mending spell to bring Quentin back, including a rare species of Fillorian black asphodel for which Josh’d traded a year’s supply of edibles to a forest nymph. Kady refused to say how she managed to procure both a precious lifeblood stone _and_ an amulet of eternal rest (which they’d actually thought might be a myth) in the space of twenty-four hours, turning up in the middle of the night grim and glowering with some kind of reddish-black clay clinging to her skin, the dark strains of battle magic still crackling from her fingertips.

“Here you go, bitches,” she’d said, her grin wide and feral, and Alice would never ask, but she’s dying to know what exactly transpired between Kady and Quentin in the between-world that had so thoroughly transformed her earlier reticence into the fierce determination Kady gives freely to the few people she considers worthy of her time.

Right now, in between snatches and bursts of a furiously whispered argument, Margo (who appears to be winning) and Eliot (who’s likely too stubborn to back down) are taking on the calculations to determine the latitudinal range of probability—the sweet spot for making an accurate inversion; a copy that’s also an opposite. A mirror of a mirror. An anti-mirror world.

Suddenly, there’s not quite anything left to do. However elaborate the equations are, there are only so many times they can go over the spells they’ve painstakingly drawn up before admitting they’re ready. Nonetheless, they jitter through one last run of it and then, with an air of finality, Alice takes her place between two identical mirrors facing each other in the centre of the room, painting the one to her left with a red symbol in Penny’s blood and leaving the right mirror blank. Eyeing each other with conviction and trepidation in equal measure, everyone assembles into a silent circle around Alice, who faces the blank mirror.

She can’t see Margo and Josh behind, but Kady and Penny are reflected in the mirror. In her field of vision there’s Julia ahead and to the left, looking solemn but determined as she flattens her palms together in front of her chest, and Eliot at her right, who flashes her a faint smile, his hands already in position.

This is it. She swallows, hard. A quick snap of a nod and—

Their fingers blur in a complicated set of well-practiced patterns, hands curving skilfully into geometric shapes while their shoulders and wrists ache with the effort and they hold their gazes straight ahead even as the walls seem to grimace with the intensity of the energy they’re releasing. A ravening black hole rips through the ceiling directly above Alice’s head, spitting burned-out shards of chaos and power. Part of Alice resists, worries that the room can’t contain the surges of magic they’re wielding—that _she_ can’t—but the rest of her surrenders to it, knows she’ll keep it together. They all will. For Quentin.

Jaw set, she steadies her hands, manipulating the flares and snaps of energy guttering from the black hole and directing it, shaping it, willing it to become something more.

Alice looks in the mirror. Really looks. Sees herself, sharp-eyed. Her hands smooth-spoken, hooking and twisting and working her will. Never before has she seen herself quite like this, never witnessed what other people must see when they look at her, and it’s honestly—it’s everything she's ever feared—too much power, too damn clever for her own good. Alice knows too much; she’s seen and forgotten everything there is to see.

And she can do things other magicians can’t.

Alice looks and looks. Her mouth curls into a snarl. It’s savage, it’s, it’s—she’s always been afraid of her own power (except for when she wasn’t Alice anymore) and she still—she still is. That effervescent sting of fear is a constant, an ever-growing and always-shifting part of what makes her Alice again, and for the first time post-Niffin, maybe the first time ever, she’s finally seeing what she’s capable of. Her, Alice, here, now.

Alice can do impossible shit. She’s bringing the beating heart of them back into a body that’s been stripped of one of its vital organs. But she’s not and could never have done it alone.

Everyone’s magic is uniting to support hers; the raw vitality of Julia’s intellect, a question that won’t ever stop asking, and the loamy power of the earth channelled through Josh—it isn’t just Alice. Penny’s magic is a warm glow, and more tender than she’d have expected; he’s embers glowing in the hearth—or he wants to be, he _could_ be, and Margo’s is exactly as blunt, bright and biting, teeth jagged at your throat and—yearning? Not underneath, but all the surface of her; Margo wants so badly to _be_ —to _have_ —to _matter_ —they all do, all of them yearning; Eliot too, the sheer electric force of him, an arrow seeking its target, and his delicate centre that’s responsive to all their dips and flares, to Kady’s brute strength and lost heart, and to—to Alice. It isn’t just her. It never had been; they were all—it was everyone, together—with Alice at the helm, but she couldn’t do it alone.

Together they impose their collective will on this world, half-demanding, half-pleading with it to give them another. And the world listens, reshaping its atoms to make space for the truth of their desires. The entire apartment block shudders with their truth, a slack mouth groaning an incandescent torrent of pure magic from ceiling to floor, filling the entire room with an expanse of thick-hot-white-glare.

Alice closes and then opens her eyes and screams and drowns in the glare; she can’t see anything but white, can’t feel anything but white in her throat, white choking her veins and sickening her gut.

It takes an hour, or maybe more, of chanting and casting, but from the suffocating whiteness, finally, the portal emerges. Alice performs the gruelling denouement to the spell, gathering up the immense power everyone’s poured into the circle and binding it, so the new world will hold semi-permanently and won’t simply dissolve, taking them all with it. When she’s finished, Alice is gasping, sucking in great, exhausting breaths, and the air is shot through with electric streaks of white iridescence that’ll linger for days to come.

They all look around the circle at each other. Or, more accurately, everyone is staring at Alice in shock.

“Holy shit.” Josh is the first to break their nervous silence, asking what they’re all thinking. “Um, did it work?”

They crowd around the right-hand mirror, its surface blackened.

“Well?” Margo drawls. “We gonna stand around with our clits between our fingers, or are we going in?”

They’d planned to wait and regroup between spells, but the atmosphere is charged. They’re wired, and it’s obvious they’re doing this now, but Alice waits for just a second to gather her thoughts then hates herself for it as Margo shoves past them all, neatly reversing the symbol from the other mirror and marching through.

Into the world they made.

“Holy shit,” Josh mutters again as he goes after her. Alice follows, dizzy. It’s the right place; she knows immediately because that same sickening dread drops in her stomach, the one telling her to stay the fuck away. If Alice’d only listened last time, Quentin might still be alive.

They make their way to the anti-Seam. It doesn’t take long. Unlike the real thing, the huge ornate mirror is sealed up by Quentin’s spell. There’s little to fear now, but Alice has too many memories of that awful day flooding her nerves. Quentin’s death had been beautiful, like tragic things sometimes were, and Alice hates it, how trauma and pain and suffering can dazzle you with its beauty and magnificence. It’s not right that something so painful can look so goddamn pretty.

As a Niffin, she’d known everything there was to know and she’d still been hungry for more. One thing she knows, even now as a (stupid, feeble) human is that there isn’t anything all that special about life. Not for its own sake, and certainly not humanity above any other lifeform. Earth is teeming with life, as are a thousand other planets over a thousand universes over a thousand millennia. And Quentin—there’s nothing special about Quentin’s life at all, except that they love him and have made him a part of themselves, their body missing an organ, and that, more than any heroic fantasy of Quentin’s, more than any act of bravery (stupidity, idiocy, how _could_ he) is what truly makes him special. They’re bringing him back because they have to, because there’s no other option. Because he would and had done the same for them. Perhaps it’s selfish—no, it definitely is—but that’s exactly the point. They need one another desperately, and together they can do it, and so they’re going to.

Because they love Quentin. Because they can. Because they’re magicians.

*

Kady settles cross-legged opposite Twenty-Three and it’s quicker this time; she knows what to expect. The path has been trodden once before and although this time it’s like Quentin’s mind is welcoming Kady back, it’s not an entirely pleasant feeling, all told. The ash and mist of the landscape is much the same, though there’s a rigidity to the atmosphere, as though something’s pinching the bones inside Kady’s skin.

Quentin’s spell is the only thing keeping the conflicted moment of his consciousness in existence. All they have to do is mend the original spell and inject their collective internal circumstances into the flow of Quentin’s magic to override the loop. They’re going to reconcile the irreconcilable, and all they have to do is want him to live.

“Everyone here?” Timing is key, so Julia had cast a version of the unity spell enabling them to talk to each other, even across worlds.

“Okay,” says Julia. “On three…”

Twenty-Three nods, and together they cast. It’s such a simple spell, it doesn’t feel right—it should be more momentous somehow than creating the anti-mirror world but it’s not; it’s over in a heart-wrenching instant. As she casts, Kady holds the lifeblood stone in her mouth until it’s dissolved into her bloodstream, into her consciousness and bleeding out into Quentin’s.

The stone had been Margo’s idea. Apparently a Lorian goatherd had used one to bring his husband (a talking goat, of course) back from the brink. They only worked in specific cases where there’s even a fraction of life remaining in the body or soul, so there’s a pretty good chance here. Margo had helped Alice and Julia to weave its power into the mending spell so that, using Kady as an intermediary, the stone will tip the scales in their favour, drawing Quentin that little bit closer to life.

She knows it’s working when he materialises. “Now!” Kady yells, and his expression, pinched with such anguish, makes her falter. But his distress is already fading into a blur of black fog along with the outline of his body, drawn tight with fear. “Kady, shit. What’re you doing?” Julia must’ve smashed the amulet of eternal rest, finally shattering the door Quentin had opened to death.

“Hey man, you broke me out of an insane asylum that time—least I can do is return the favour.”

“No, Kady—”

“Sorry, Q, but they need you—we all do.”

Josh is chanting in ancient Greek, burning the asphodel to seal the deal. It’s happening.

“Kady,” Quentin cries out. “Don’t. Kady, I told you—”

It’s nothing like the hazy dissolution Kady remembers from before—this time Quentin’s consciousness erupts and shatters, forcibly ejecting Kady and Penny as the part reunites with the whole.

*

When Kady finally opens her eyes, she’s flat on her back as though thrown from a great height. She scrambles up, and Twenty-Three’s doing the same, peeling himself off the floor with a groan. Everyone’s shaken. No one wants to ask the question this time as they make a swift exit from the anti-mirror world, rushing back to the apartment and straight ahead into the Mirror Realm. They have to see for themselves.

Wordlessly, they follow Alice and Twenty-Three at the fore, stalking through dim corridors, a white door, and—holy shit.

There he is.

His back is to them and he’s buck naked, curled protectively into a fetal position. But that distinctive flop of hair—it couldn’t be anyone else.

Nervously, they look at each other. Even Twenty-Three seems off-kilter and Eliot looks wrecked, clutching at Margo, their arms looped and hands tightly entwined.

Julia’s the first to approach Quentin, kneeling by his side and setting down the rucksack they’d packed with supplies—a change of clothes, space blanket, bottled water and snacks. The collective tension climbs as she places a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“Q,” she says softly, voice cracked with fear and hope. Julia shifts to wrap the blanket around his shoulders, covering him as he turns onto his back, yawning widely.

“Jules?”

It’s him. It’s really him.

Nobody is more surprised than Kady when tears start streaming down her face, as a freight of tension she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying is released. Kady had agreed to help because Julia had asked, it was that simple. What she hadn’t ever really allowed herself to think about were the stakes of the whole thing. That she’d incepted Quentin and managed to decipher—well. Some of it. Enough. She’d done enough.

Shoulders trembling, Kady glances around the room. These are her friends, ostensibly, but none of them are exactly people she’d go to for any heart-to-heart bullshit. Julia’s the only candidate for that, but Quentin obviously needs her more right now.

It’s Penny she wants, as always. The ache he left behind won’t ever seem to heal.

With a shiver, Kady thinks about the small grey space Quentin’s mind had become the moment he’d cast that spell, and hopes they’ve done the right thing.

*

“What’s going on? Did I oversleep?” Quentin scrubs the back of his hand over his eyes and nervous laughter spreads around the room like a contagion.

“Um, Jules, where are we?” Quentin sits up, tugging the blanket around his shoulders. “Oh, and everybody. Hey. Whoa, um. Wait a sec. Where’re my clothes?” Quentin’s voice is small and cracked, this beautiful, fragile thing that Alice hadn’t dared hope she’d ever get to hear again.

They’re all just staring at him, and Quentin’s confusion edges out into quiet agitation as he stares back, clutching at the blanket, his eyes huge and glassy.

They need to get him the hell out of here. The unity spell is still active, so Alice mutters under her breath, and silently, everyone mobilises. They’d brought him a change of clothes, but it seems far more important to get him back to safety and far away from the Seam. Alice shudders; she’ll be happy to never have to look at the site of Quentin’s almost-death ever again.

Death, Alice corrects. Don’t sugar coat it. He died. He just didn’t stay dead.

Everyone moves at once, forming a protective pack around Quentin as Julia helps him up and makes sure the blanket stays in place. Quentin seems too dazed to ask any more questions, and once they’re back through the mirror, everyone breathes a little easier.

They’ve really done it. Quentin’s really here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mayakovsky quote that Alice remembers is from _The Magicians_ book one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eliot’s gonna do it—peaches and plums, all of it._
> 
> _“Quentin, there’s something I really want to tell you, okay?”_
> 
> _“Okay,” Quentin says, turning and gazing up from beneath his lashes, and when Eliot’s chest expands on the next inhale it just holds there, seemingly unwilling to contract._
> 
>  _His heart is thumping grotesquely. He smooths a palm over his breastbone in the pretence of flattening out a wrinkle in his shirt. “You saved me,” he says, which isn’t where he’d intended to begin, and more than anything he wants to finally be the person who does the brave thing, but he can’t quite get there; the wreck and ruin of the last nine months closing in on him, a landslide of mistakes and regrets standing in the way of the person he wants to be but can’t. It’s like stretching for something that keeps moving beyond his grasp. “Alice told me, she told me what you did for all those months when I was—gone. And I—I can’t imagine. What you must have gone through.”_  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's back!! But, uh, there's some content info at the end about that. And also, just a note here to say that this chapter doesn't end in the happiest place, but things will definitely get better in the next one.
> 
> Extra huge thanks to hoko_onchi, Rubick and DirectToVideo for betaing and cheering <3
> 
> The title for Part 3 is a lyric from the song 'Microphones in 2020' by The Microphones.

###  **Part Three**

####  **I keep on not dying, the sun keeps on rising**

Back at the apartment, nobody wants to leave Quentin alone for a second. Julia disappears into one of the bedrooms with him and when they emerge, Quentin’s wearing a pair of scuffed black jeans and a worn sweatshirt Alice doesn’t recognise. He looks so normal. A bit subdued, but maybe that’s normal too. Alice doesn’t know what to expect; none of them do as they gather nervously in the living room. Of all of them, Margo, Penny and Josh appear the most recovered. Penny’s checking in on Kady, who snaps at him, fiercely resistant to his concern. Josh, having immediately raided the kitchen cupboards, brings over a tray piled high with snacks that nobody but him seems able to stomach. Hanging back behind the couch on the outskirts of the room, Margo is giving Eliot a sternly whispered talking to. He probably needs it, Alice thinks, surveying him for a moment. The look on Eliot’s face reminds her of the aftermath of a terrible storm; roof torn off, rain flooding in, all that he once possessed gone to ruin.

Quentin’s sitting in the corner of the sectional by the window, Julia close by his side. He’s barely said a word since they got back, but his brow furrows as his eyes lock on Kady’s. “Uh, Kady? I think I dreamed about you? But…”

Alarmed, Kady looks at Alice, whispering, “What do I say?” and Alice doesn’t have a fucking clue. Her hands flinch uselessly at her sides, her shoulder jerks forward, nothing comes out of her mouth.

“Quentin,” Julia says carefully, hand on his arm. “What do you remember?”

“I don’t know? I feel like I’ve been asleep for a really long time, like, too long, you know when you wake up feeling worse than when you went to bed?” His frown deepens. “I don’t actually remember going to bed. What’s—why do I feel like I’ve missed something big?”

Alice sits down in the chair opposite Quentin, exchanging a look with Julia. “Well,” Julia starts, but Quentin interrupts.

“Kady?” His head dips self-consciously. “Sorry, no one likes hearing about someone else’s dreams, right? It’s just so—you were.” Quentin stops, clearly reaching some kind of mental barrier. “We were... I don’t remember.” He pushes a hand through his hair, the movement slow and cumbersome. “Sorry? It just felt really vivid there for a second when I saw you.”

“Uh, don’t worry about it,” Kady says faintly.

Quentin shakes his head. “Guys? What the fuck is going on?”

Nobody appears to know how to explain. Alice stifles a sigh, remembering how kind Quentin had tried to be after he’d shoved her back into her (frail, mortal, stupid, useless) human body. “Q, how are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling? I woke up in—was that the Mirror Realm? With you all standing there being _really weird_ and then, oh yeah, for some reason I’m the only one mysteriously missing clothes? What the hell happened? What were you doing? Can I have some—” he grimaces, seeming displeased—“some soda, or something?”

Kady leaps up a little too eagerly, rooting around in the fridge for slightly longer than seems necessary.

Quentin sticks his jaw out. “Why are you all _looking_ at me like that?”

Everyone immediately busies themselves, pretending like they weren’t staring at him like he’s just come back from the dead, apart from Penny, who stands up, arms folded. “Jesus, will someone just fucking tell him already?”

“Tell me _what_?”

Alice looks around wildly, feeling violently out of her depth, and when Margo steps in, for once Alice is just relieved, plain and simple, glad to have someone take over. A wave of exhaustion sweeps over her, pressing down on her shoulders like a heavy overcoat on a too-warm day.

“Things have been weird as shit lately, okay Q?” Margo says, hand on hip. “Everything got ass backward and fucked six ways from Sunday when you went to the goddamn Mirror Realm.”

“But, wait. We just came from the Mirror Realm,” says Quentin, face screwing up in confusion. “Why the fuck don’t I remember any of this?”

“Probably because you died,” she says with a shrug, looking squarely at him. “And we brought you back.”

“What?” Quentin’s face twists. “That’s not even a thing. What are you talking about?” As his gaze drags over Margo and lands on Eliot, Quentin’s mouth drops open. “Eliot.” His body seizes in such a palpable state of boundless panic that it’s hard to watch. Alice doesn’t look away, can’t bear to. “Eliot,” Quentin says, desperation threaded sharply through his voice, head shaking as though he can stir loose what he’s missing. “What happened to you?”

A glass skids off the counter and shatters mid-air, shards scattering across the floor like stardust. Everyone stares at the mess, apart from Quentin, whose eyes are fixed on Eliot.

“Whoops,” says Margo as she flicks her wrist and the shards reform. “All better.”

“Quentin, what’s the last thing you _do_ remember?” Julia asks gently, nodding at Kady as she passes a soda to Quentin, everyone doing their best to ignore how much Eliot is shaking.

Quentin tips his head back, guzzling the whole can and then wrinkling his nose. “Wow, this is so sugary. Sorry, um. I don’t know.” Again, his gaze seems to zero in on Eliot, who’s beginning to look slowly terrified at the implications of what Quentin might be remembering.

“Eliot,” Quentin says again, confused. “I don’t—are you—?”

“I’m fine, Q,” Eliot says quickly. “Really, I’m so—it’s so good to see you.”

Quentin frowns, glancing around at them all before dropping his eyes to the floor again. “How long has it been?” 

“You died nine months ago. Nine months and twelve days,” says Eliot, and Alice can see every one of those days reflected in his eyes; gaze soft and unguarded, shattered by the ferocity of his grief—and his self-loathing, too, because whatever happened or didn’t happen between Eliot and Quentin, it’s plainly obvious that Eliot blames himself. A hairline fracture splits through Alice’s heart when she learns that Eliot is still counting the days. It always surprises her that a heart already broken beyond repair can remain susceptible to these small damages. 

“Oh,” Quentin says.

“It’s been longer than that since—since we last saw each other.” Eliot starts to walk over to him. Quentin flinches, Eliot stops. “Sorry,” Eliot says awkwardly. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

“What _happened_?” Quentin asks again, hands twisting in his lap. His eyes flit from Eliot to Julia, and back to Eliot again, “You—you were—” 

“Hey,” Julia says softly, “maybe we should—”

“I _died_ ,” Quentin says to himself, looking out into the middle distance beyond them all, clutching his knees tightly. “What the _fuck_? Why did you…? I don’t understand. _How_?”

“I told you,” Margo steps in again, “Shit got real in the Mirror World. You did magic; the whole place got smashed to fuck. _You_ got smashed to fuck. You don’t remember?”

“I don’t know…” He pulls his knees up to his chest, feet tucked beneath him. The knot in Alice’s chest unwinds ever so slightly to see Quentin contorting himself into one of those positions he swore up and down were actually comfortable, but which make her joints ache just looking at him. God. He’s here. He’s really here. 

Quentin looks at Eliot like he’s the only person in the room. Another thing that’s exactly as it always has been, Alice notes without (much) resentment. 

“I remember the monster?” he says, slow, voice catching. “...It was you.”

A large picture frame crashes to the floor, glass shattering and making everybody jump. Alice mends it this time, casting a sympathetic look Eliot’s way. “Maybe we should give you guys some space,” Eliot says quickly. “Margo?”

“You need to calm your shit, El,” Margo hisses. “Go do some of your hippie meditation crap, or cry it out in the bathroom—whatever it fucking takes, okay?”

Eliot doesn’t respond, staring at Quentin, who’s looking increasingly agitated, eyes darting from Eliot to the mended picture frame. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, honey,” says Margo. 

“You don’t seem fine,” Quentin says to Eliot. “And you’re all being really fucking weird again,” he adds to the room at large. 

“Because you came back from the fucking dead, Quentin,” Penny snipes. “It’s pretty much an inherently weird fucking situation.”

“Um, well. You’re the ones who all brought me back. I mean, thanks, I guess? But why are we all, like, sitting around having some big meeting about it?”

Kady nudges Alice’s shoulder. “Uh, this is _not_ going well.”

“I know,” Alice says, surprised by Kady’s genuine concern and then chastened by her assumption that after all she’d already done to help save him, Kady wouldn’t care about Quentin enough to notice or mention his distress now that he’s alive. “But I don’t know what we should—”

An ear-splitting crash interrupts Alice’s train of thought. Half the crockery in the kitchen appears to have exploded, the countertops littered with ceramic debris. Alice spots her favourite mug in several pieces on the floor, and it looks like most of the glassware will need to be replaced, too. 

“Jesus assfucking _Christ_ , Eliot,” Margo says. “I tell you to calm your shit, and instead you pull a Carrie on us?”

Eliot, mortified by his loss of control, yet still exasperated with Margo, says, “Okay, first, you know I hate that reference, so kindly fuck off. And second, _I_ told _you_ that it doesn’t fucking work like that.” 

Nudging Alice’s shoulder again, Kady whispers, “Quentin’s freaking the fuck out—we need to do something.” Shit. Kady’s right; with his hands covering his ears, Quentin has curled into a ball and looks on the verge of falling apart. Fortunately, Margo has the same idea as Kady, taking charge in her usual terrifyingly efficient way. “Okay, we gotta get our asses out of here before Eliot takes down the entire building and our boy here has a meltdown.” To Quentin, she says, “We’re gonna leave you the fuck alone for a few hours, okay honey? You and Julia can catch up on all the hot resurrection goss, give you a chance to adjust to the land of the living without all this bullshit.”

“Oh,” says Quentin, bewildered by the suddenly imminent departure. 

Turning to Penny, Margo says, “Look, we _know_ you’re not a taxi, but just this once would you shut the hell up and give us a ride?" and Penny quickly agrees, looking glad for an excuse to leave.

There’s a flurry of movement around the apartment as everyone grabs their things and prepares to leave. Eliot manages a stilted goodbye to Quentin, his usual flourishes of physical affection conspicuously absent. Margo makes up for it, swiping Quentin’s hair back from his face, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “Glad you’re back, kiddo,” she says softly. “Julia’s got some important shit to tell you, okay? But we’ll come back tomorrow when things have settled down.”

“Oh,” Quentin says again.

With a twinge in her stomach, Alice reminds herself that it’s not her responsibility to soothe Quentin’s feelings anymore (not that she was ever very good at it in the first place), and though part of her is drawn by that very prospect—an Alice who could love softly and wholly, could nurture Quentin back to life—that’s not who she is anymore. Maybe not who she ever was. Alice has played her part, and she’s done it well. Quentin’s alive. Mission accomplished. She did it—they all did it. But, this? This isn’t her job. Alice did the research. She stayed up night after night reading furiously and scrawling endless pages, wrist aching, eyes swimming. She composed the spells, along with Julia. Struck a deal with the Library where she’ll be starting work immediately now that their end of the bargain is fulfilled. 

Weirdly, Alice is almost looking forward to it. The inevitability of her fate holds a certain appeal. Because perhaps there were other avenues she might have explored, but now, she doesn’t have to make those kinds of decisions, does she? It’s done. At least for the next twenty years. And whatever happens now, it was worth it. Because Quentin’s _here_. He’s slumped over, still and silent, hugging his knees and looking at the floor. But he’s here. And the next part’s not up to Alice. She’s done her bit. And so, while nobody asks her directly, Alice lets herself be swept up in the category of ‘everyone’, thankful she won’t be tasked with tending to Quentin’s confusion, the inevitable chaos and trauma that will follow, and probably more than a few tears.

None of them had ever talked about what would happen after they brought Quentin back, concentrating their efforts solely on the doing of it, and until now, Alice hadn’t considered that they’ve returned Quentin back to a life he was only half-certain he wanted to live. It was them who had wanted it, so badly, and that was all that’d mattered at the time. Alice falters, as she so often does these days, never sure if the decision she’s making is actually for the best, or if it’s just best for Alice. Maybe she should stay. After all, Quentin had done so for her. Or, he’d wanted to, at any rate. Would’ve done anything for her, if she’d let him.

But then, something unexpected happens; as the Fillory group assembles, Kady breaks away from the pack, addressing Julia and Quentin in a tone that’s surprisingly soft. “All right if I hang for a while with you guys? I’m not exactly needed in Fillory.”

Good. That’s good. Alice says a quiet goodbye to Quentin, then takes Josh’s hand. Julia flashes Kady a grateful look. The three of them sit in a moment of silence. Quentin looks… Alice isn’t sure, she can’t read the flatness of his expression. She’d thought there would be more tears, more emotion, more—something. The last thing Alice hears as she flickers from one world to another is Julia, voice wobbling as she says, “Quentin. Q. We’ve got a few things to talk about, okay?”

*

Quentin doesn’t know what to make of… anything. It’s the day after his resurrection, and the whole gang drops by the penthouse again after he lets Julia give the go ahead. The atmosphere is far less fraught than the day before. When they arrive, Margo is the first to yank him into a fierce and uncompromising hug, muttering something vaguely menacing about what she’ll do to his balls if he ever worries her like that again. Even Penny offers a gruff, “It’s good you’re back, man,” though he mercifully avoids a hug.

Eliot holds him a little too tightly for a little too long, but Quentin doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind much of anything. For his part, Quentin just sort of lets it all happen to him. It doesn’t feel especially good to see anyone, but neither is it especially bad. The initial shock of waking up in the Mirror Realm has given way to a profound sense of detachment. They all keep asking him how he’s feeling, and it’s getting a little difficult to keep answering the same question. There are only so many times he can say, “Fine, yeah, great,” without sounding less fine and less great each time. But apart from that, it’s nice enough to see everyone, especially now they’ve all stopped looking at him so weirdly.

They’re in the living room, sitting around the marble table, Quentin next to Julia at one end of the couch. The conversation has split into two predictable factions; at his left, Julia is talking to Penny and Kady about some big cooperative spell she’s been writing, and Alice adds the occasional comment in between worried glances at Eliot. At his right and further away, Margo is regaling Josh and Eliot with a rundown of some Lorian delegation or treaty or something, Quentin’s not quite sure, mind spinning as he loses the thread, only able to keep his attention on the conversation for thirty seconds or so at a time. Something to do with the talking animals?

He gives up as laughter breaks out simultaneously across the two groups, and slips away, pretending to himself that he’s going to the bathroom, then quietly taking off upstairs to his room. Being alone brings with it an instant flood of relief, mixed with an odd sensation he can’t quite place. Agitation fluttering beneath his ribs, a leaden paralysis in his limbs, a weight that’s dropping and dropping in his stomach. Because now that he’s here, Quentin doesn’t quite know what to do. He lies very still on top of the bed for a while, trying to think of something to think about.

There’s a soft graze of a knock at the door. Quentin sits up.

“It’s me, Eliot. Can I come in?”

He sounds unusually tentative, but Quentin shrugs it off, as he’s done with most things in the day since his resurrection. He’s finding that none of the things that used to bother him are breaking through the surface. Maybe, he contemplates, with a mild sort of interest, they brought him back better? But Quentin doesn’t feel better, not exactly. He doesn’t know what he feels.

Eliot comes in, bringing an uncharacteristic fragility with him as he sits next to Quentin on the bed, his hesitance filling the gap between them like another person in the room. Unlike almost everyone else, Eliot doesn’t ask how he is. “Q,” is what Eliot says, and Quentin sees something so uncomfortably raw in his expression that it makes him want to look away, and so he does.

“Q,” he says again. “God. I fucking—shit. Quentin.”

Quentin doesn’t know how to respond to this. Eliot looks remarkably serious, or perhaps like he might be sick, Quentin’s not sure. “Uh, are you okay?”

“Aren’t I meant to be the one asking you that?”

A laugh startles from Quentin’s throat like a bird shaken from its nest. “You’re actually the only one who hasn’t. I mean, apart from Penny, but that’s a given.”

*

Eliot inhales a dizzying breath, uncertain about what he wants to say next. All the hopes he’s been pretending not to have are clamouring at his ribcage. But how likely is it, really, that Quentin will—he’s only just come back. The timing isn’t—but when will the timing ever be right? Quentin deserves to know. He fucking died bringing Eliot back, so the least Eliot can do is tell Quentin the goddamn truth for once. He’s come somewhat prepared, having rehearsed everything he wants to say like the actual fucking loser he apparently is now, and the only question is whether he’ll actually go through with it. He runs a hand through the curls at the back of his neck, a tremor threatening to crack open his chest. He’s gonna do it—peaches and plums, all of it.

“Quentin,” he starts again, pleased to find his voice much steadier. “There’s something I really want to tell you, okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin says, turning and gazing up from beneath his lashes, and when Eliot’s chest expands on the next inhale it just holds there, seemingly unwilling to contract.

His heart is thumping grotesquely. He smooths a palm over his breastbone in the pretence of flattening out a wrinkle in his shirt. He’s cocked out once already and he’s not going to do it again. “You saved me,” he says, which isn’t where he’d intended to begin, and more than anything he wants to finally be the person who does the brave thing, but he can’t quite get there; the wreck and ruin of the last nine months closing in on him, a landslide of mistakes and regrets standing in the way of the person he wants to be but can’t. It’s like stretching for something that keeps moving beyond his grasp. “Alice told me, she told me what you did for all those months when I was—gone. And I—I can’t imagine. What you must have gone through.”

“I mean, it was a team effort,” Quentin says, barely a mumble, looking down again between his knees. “But yeah, it didn’t sound like a great time.”

“Didn’t sound like?” Eliot asks slowly.

“Uh. Yeah. Julia told me—she said things went kind of crazy town, with the monster and yeah, it was pretty bad from what I remember. But you’re—” He glances back at Eliot with that same startling intensity from the day before. “You’re okay?”

Eliot can’t help the devastated rattle of laughter that wrings from his chest. “I’m—ha. Yeah. I’m okay.” He frowns, trying to process what Quentin’s saying. There’s something odd about it, but Eliot needs to keep talking, even though none of this is coming out as planned, flinging the words out before he can think better of it. “Q, I just have to say this, okay? You asked me something, after we remembered the mosaic, and—”

“Oh,” Quentin says, flat and hard as concrete. “No, Eliot, it’s really—”

“No, it’s really not okay. What I said to you was—I need to tell you, how sorry I am. I was scared and when I’m—”

“You really don’t need to explain this.” Quentin’s expression is flat, too, and curiously so, betraying very little sign of what he might be thinking or feeling. It’s not like Quentin at all. Neither is the sigh he lets out; not a huff of irritation or sulky impatience—just an exhalation, unreadable, or perhaps it’s simply that everything Quentin’s been through has rendered him opaque to Eliot who has always been able to read him so easily. The thought strikes him clean through the gut. “I remember all that stuff, but it was a long time ago. You don’t need to apologise. I don’t feel bad about it anymore, it’s like, whatever part of me said that, I just. I don’t even know what that feels like anymore. So, you don’t need to worry about that, okay?”

Every word is a weight strung to his heart. Hands shaking, Eliot smooths them over his knees. He tries again. “I’m not—I’m not _worried_. I want to tell you that I’m sorry I told you we wouldn’t work. I don’t think that’s true—not at all. But I get it, I get that—”

“You don’t think it’s true,” Quentin echoes. His unnerving placidity is worse even than the looks of awkward pity Eliot had imagined. Quentin’s jagged intensity has been ironed out; there’s no foothold for Eliot to climb. He’s flatlands stretching out into the distance, looming and endless, yet with nothing to see for miles. “Okay.”

“Quentin, I—” Love you? But his love for Quentin has not gone untouched by the grief that’d made its home inside Eliot’s skin, and which hadn’t simply vacated the premises the moment Quentin had sat up and said Julia’s name. It still cleaves to his guts, is perhaps woven too deeply to be ever cast out entirely. That grief had swallowed Eliot whole, split him open, turned him inside out. “I need you to know.” He needs Quentin to know the truth, but this might be as far as he can get.

“Okay. I know that you’re sorry for saying we wouldn’t work, and you don’t believe that. I don’t know what to do with that, honestly. I don’t—I can’t really—” Quentin has gone very still. Eliot doesn’t know what to say, how to end this conversation he never even thought he’d get to have. He’s lucky, he realises, to even have this. To have Quentin’s motionless rigidity, his plains and plateaus, the too-shortness of his hair and the downturn of his mouth, all of which make Eliot’s chest ache with a deep longing for what might have been. But Eliot has so much already. He has Quentin. Alive.

It still stings like hell. Because wanting things is always a tragedy in the making, and Eliot of all people should know better. It’s too late. He’s missed his shot, and it hurts far more than he’d bargained for. Was telling him truly the right thing to do? Probably. Even if it doesn’t feel that way. Like, at all. “Hey, it’s, um.” Eliot swallows, throat sore. He desperately wants to crack a joke right now, but no amount of rifling through his chest cavity will unearth one. “It’s totally fine you don’t feel—yeah, I get it.”

Quentin looks at him, impassive. “Yeah, I don’t really feel much of anything, you know?”

“Of course,” Eliot says quickly. “You’ve been through a lot, it’s understandable. I just—” He can’t quite seem to leave it alone. Now that he’s started, it’s hard to stop. Eliot’s spiralling and he knows it, has become quite familiar with the stomach-dropping shame of his startling inability to _control himself_ the way he used to, the way he _wants to_ , still, even now that he knows better. It didn’t used to be this way. Spiralling out of control is supposed to be one of _Quentin’s_ default modes, not Eliot’s. And yet: “I just—I nearly died and you actually died. And so I just wanted to say sorry”— _oh my god stop talking_ —“for pushing you away. Back then. That’s all.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. Like I said, don’t sweat it.”

“Right,” Eliot says, straining for the casual indifference he used to so effortlessly embody and missing the mark entirely, “I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of these weepy reunions, so…” He winces. _Bring it down a notch, Jesus._ “And probably the last thing you were expecting from me, huh?” He can’t quite seem to even out the pitch of his voice, and if it’s painful for him to hear, he can’t imagine what Quentin’s thinking right now. Regrettably, Eliot continues, “Hoping you’ll give me a best-friend-back-from-the-dead pass on that one,” voice devolving into an uncomfortable singsong.

“Sure. Don’t worry about it.”

It doesn’t look like Quentin’s thinking much of anything. Which would be a relief if it weren’t quite so unsettling. A small fracture ruptures the floorboard beneath Eliot’s feet. Fuck. He can’t risk repairing it—if recent experience is anything to go by, a torrent of actual shit might start pouring from the ceiling if he tries to cast right now. While Eliot had held it together in order to help bring Quentin back, the emotional impact of doing so has set back the progress he’d been making with his magical control.

“Right, well, I should leave you to it,” Eliot says, as brightly as he can manage, which is actually pretty damn radiant; he’s not completely useless, he can still put on a show.

It’s only much later that the enormity of Quentin’s apathy hits him. How he’d said the monster’s months of torture and cruelty didn’t sound like the best time, as though it’d happened to someone else. And the way he’d spoken… His usual awkward run-on cadence was intact, but it’d seemed muted somehow, in a way Eliot can’t put his finger on. There was an almost mechanised quality to his speech, as though Quentin had been saying the words, but the meaning was trapped somewhere he couldn’t reach.

*

“How’s your magical control been this week?”

Eliot glances at Laura, eyes darting. “I, uh. It’s been up and down? I did another cooperative spell.” He laughs weakly. Talk about a fucking understatement. Not to mention the amount of fucking _journaling_ and _meditating_ he’s been doing to keep his shit together, and even then, his magic is still going haywire every time he so much as _thinks_ about Quentin.

“That’s good news, Eliot.”

“It’s not good,” he says, with a prickle of irritation. “This _emotional_ _honesty_ shit really does work, I’ll give you that. But don’t expect me to throw a big fucking party for all my fucking feelings, okay?”

“Noted,” Laura says, suppressing a smile and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Cancel feelings party.”

Heart slamming a violent rhythm, Eliot gets it over with. “The spell was to bring Quentin back. From the dead,” he adds unnecessarily. “Or, well, he wasn’t exactly altogether dead? That part’s complicated. But Quentin’s alive.”

To Eliot’s great satisfaction, Laura is finally at a loss for words. It’s the first time he’s said anything that’s truly fazed her and he can’t help but give a quick smirk. “Yeah, exactly. Big fucking deal, right?”

“Your dedication and commitment to working on your emotional wellbeing makes a lot of sense now, even if very little else does. I—how? That shouldn’t be possible. What have you done?”

Eliot gives her the rundown, and when he’s finished, she sits back in her chair, stunned. “That’s an incredible thing you’ve done. I’m at a complete loss.”

“Yeah, gotta say I am enjoying that part.”

And yet, Laura moves on rather more quickly than Eliot’d like. “So, how are you feeling?”

“I—I don’t know.” A lie. “I can’t believe we did it. Well, it was mainly Alice. And Julia too.” An evasive truth.

Laura nods. “This is a lot for you to process. No wonder you’ve been having ups and downs. Jesus Christ, Eliot.”

Eliot laughs. “Um, yeah. I’ve smashed up a few things over the last couple of days.”

“Okay, that makes sense. Keep working on everything we’ve been doing, and remember we can increase the sessions to twice weekly again if necessary.”

His groan is mostly for show, but it’s also a little bit real. Dropping down to once a week was hard-won and he doesn’t want to go backwards. Laura is looking at him; Eliot braces himself. “Are you going to tell Quentin how you feel about him?”

The jug of water on the table between them cracks cleanly in half. Eliot rolls his eyes. He’d expected the question, had even thought about how he might answer it. He’s thought about it a lot. But for all his thinking on the way over, and in the shower this morning, and first thing upon waking, he hasn’t been able to come up with a satisfactory answer.

“I don’t know how I feel about him,” he lies, as water floods onto the carpet in rivulets dripping from the tabletop. “But I _so_ appreciate you bringing it up.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she says. They exchange a small smile, both of them used to the mechanics of their game by now. Laura repairs the water jug with a tut, but as she eyes him, Eliot feels a sharp tug in his chest and the table splits down the middle, sending the jug crashing to pieces once more.

Eliot sighs.

*

Tentatively, Julia asks again—they’re always asking him how he feels, but Quentin shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t remember, exactly? I was kinda in a daze at first, but I do know everything that happened. Magic gone, key quest, monster, et cetera. I guess it feels more like something I dreamed or saw in a movie I watched right before bed than something that actually happened to me. Like, I know the facts of it, mostly, I think. But.” He shrugs. He’s been doing a lot of shrugging since he came back from the dead. “I don’t really feel too much about any of it, to be honest. Which is weird, right? Because it all sounds like stuff you’d have a feeling or two about.” Quentin does know that this gaping pit of nothingness where his feelings used to be isn’t normal. That he’s not behaving like himself. He knows he ought to be at the very least mildly perturbed by dying or being resurrected or babysitting the monster or any number of traumatic things he can recall with clarity but which now appear to be severed from any part of him that used to have feelings about things.

Julia smiles through her worry, an expression she’s directed toward Quentin countless times over the years. “Maybe it’ll just take a little while for things to get back to normal.” Her platitude isn’t a good sign, but he doesn’t want Julia to worry. Especially not about him. For one, Quentin is actually pretty much fine? And besides, there are about a thousand more important things someone like Julia ought to be doing with her time and energy, though he can’t yet grasp what those things might be. He throws back the expected response about needing time to adjust, smiling at Julia, thinking that considering the events leading up to his death, it’s probably for the best he doesn’t have that many feelings about them. It’s quite clear to Quentin that any such feelings would not be pleasant.

This is much better.

*

A few weeks later, it’s clear that Quentin’s not exactly adjusting to the life of the newly resurrected. An impromptu meeting to discuss the matter has sprung up around the penthouse kitchen table on one of the rare occasions everyone happens to be overlapping in the apartment. Quentin’s in his room, where he’s been spending most of his time.

“Look, nobody wants to say it, so I’m going to: did we bring him back wrong?”

“No!” Alice hisses. “Jesus, Margo. Of course not.”

Of course, Margo has voiced the very question Alice can barely stand to ask herself. Had they made a mistake? Has she fucked up (again)?

“Oh shit, did we Buffy season six him?” Josh looks at them all expectantly, throwing his hands up in exasperation when they all stare at him blankly, apart from Margo, who rolls her eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Penny. “Do not make me listen to this nerd shit right now.”

“Okay, but, c’mon. Not only is this the golden age of television we’re talking about, but like, what if we have?” Josh appeals to Margo, who drains her mimosa and takes pity on him.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Buffy comes back all mopey and depressed because her best friends ripped her out of her happy place.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t describe Quentin’s brain as anyone’s idea of a happy place,” says Kady with a raised eyebrow. “And I don’t even mean that as a burn.”

“Also, Quentin was already depressed,” Julia adds.

“Not to mention the metric fuck ton of trauma and PTSD,” says Margo.

Josh stands up to check the blueberry muffins in the oven, a delicious smell emanating from the open door. “Fine,” he mutters to himself. “Maybe the particulars aren’t _exactly_ the same… Q would get it.”

Kady snaps her gum. “His brain got fucked up sometimes, but he wasn’t like this, right?”

Another question Alice has been turning over in her mind but hasn’t dared to put words to. In the run up to his death, Quentin had been so razor focused on the Saving Eliot of it all—had she missed something? Had they all missed something?

Julia leans forward to grab a muffin from the tray Josh sets down, ignoring his warning to wait until they’ve cooled. “I’ve seen Quentin go to some dark places. Darker, probably, than this? But I’m also not sure I’ve seen him quite like this, to be honest—or, if he was, he kept it from me. He did that a lot, would isolate from everyone. And he wasn’t doing so great those last few months before he—well, we know how he was feeling when he cast the spell. It’s not really a shock that he’d be feeling kinda shitty now. I think we just need to be there for him. In whatever form that ends up taking.”

“Does he know yet?” Eliot, sat between Alice and Margo, is tapping a rhythmic pattern against his knee under the table. Alice can feel the vibrations of it every time her elbow brushes Eliot’s. “About the spell, I mean?” Alice notes too that Eliot has yet to shed the external markers of grief he’d accumulated in the long months between Quentin’s death and his resurrection, those thick layers of sediment slowly solidifying into rock; his heavy black overcoat, the dark vests and still-darker shadows around his eyes. Quentin has come back to life, but it seems Eliot has yet to follow in his footsteps.

“No,” Julia admits, with a nervous glance toward Alice. “He seemed so overwhelmed at first. And when we said we’d wait for him to ask more, I guess we thought he would’ve by now.”

Margo twists open an icy-cold sparkling water, pouring it into a martini glass. “Gotta say, he’s weirdly unconcerned about the whole resurrection business.”

“He’s weirdly unconcerned about everything,” says Eliot, arm slipping around Margo’s waist. He’s right; Quentin’s indifference to almost everything is becoming more pronounced over time and not less as they’d hoped.

“He doesn’t want to see any of us, and he doesn’t even seem to mind that he can’t do magic.” This was perhaps what had bothered Alice the most since a strained conversation with Quentin about it a few days ago. “I tried to tell him what Mayakovsky said—I couldn’t do spells either after I came back. He told me I had to learn from scratch, which wasn’t _quite_ accurate, but there was definitely a steep curve.”

“Right,” Julia nods. “Like a newborn baby learning for the first time—that’s what you told me, too, after I got all re-humanised. Except in my case, I had a major traumatic event to trigger it and it came back almost fully formed. There was definitely some relearning to do though. Maybe it’ll just take him a while to get the spark going?”

Alice hums in agreement but deep down she’s dubious. She’d offered to go through some theory with Quentin, practice his Popper’s, but he’d just smiled, quick and bland, and said, “Sure, Alice, sounds nice.” Like he was agreeing to a coffee date they both knew he’d never attend and was only saying otherwise out of politeness. It’s not Alice’s problem, she knows it’s not. But Quentin had loved magic more than any of them and his growing apathy is painful to witness.

“So, what do we do?” Kady’s after a practical solution as always, but in this case, there just doesn’t seem to be one, or at least, nothing satisfactory. Julia wants to tell him everything about Quentin’s spell and exactly how they were able to resurrect him. Eliot agrees, but Alice isn’t so sure it’s a good idea. As Margo puts it, “Wrangling him downstairs to pile on more traumatic shit or push him into spilling his feelings, isn’t gonna do him any good.” 

“But we can’t just do _nothing_ ,” Julia says, upset. Kady puts a hand on her arm. “Hey,” she says quietly. “You’ve been checking in with him, right? And I’ve seen him around the apartment some. He’s pretty resistant to talking about, well, anything. So, I think Margo might be right. What good is it gonna do telling him that he was feeling suicidal when he died? That’s probably not gonna be news to him. I wish there was more we could do, but really, what are our options here?”

Julia doesn’t look wholly convinced, and Eliot even less so, but neither of them can think of anything they can actually do to help Quentin other than just… time. Everyone looks disconcerted as they filter out of the apartment and back to their lives, having agreed to do what they’d already agreed on previously: answer any questions Quentin asks, keep an eye on him, try not to upset him.

It just doesn’t seem like quite enough.

*

Quentin dreams of a bell ringing in a small grey room. He can’t find the source of the dissonant sound for a long time and when he does, he places his hand over the bell to stop its strident echo, but it keeps ringing. Frustrated, Quentin traps the clapper between his fingers, but still the sound persists. As the clamour intensifies, a sickness rises in him, filling him with the deep and pervasive truth of things, which is that no matter what he does, he’ll forever be alone in this room with a bell that’ll ring out its eternity and there’s nothing he can do.

It feels like months pass, and maybe they do. By the time Kady appears, Quentin and the noise have become one entity; its ring resounds at his core, the thrill of the bell speaks through his flesh.

“You can’t unring a bell,” Kady says, and Quentin wakes up.

*

Quentin doesn’t remember dying, but he doesn’t remember much about how to live, either. Despite Julia’s best efforts to reassure him, Quentin’s pretty sure something’s wrong. What had initially felt like a relief was now beginning to seem like an unrelenting void, a black hole where all things meaningful to him had once resided. If he remembers rightly, Quentin was once the sort of person who had felt, if anything, perhaps a little too much. In some ways it’s a relief that it—whatever it is—is missing, but in others… well. For one thing, it’s hard to know what to do with himself when he cares so little about what happens. When the blur of tentative visits and excited hugs inevitably peters out, Quentin finds he has nothing to go back to. There’s no quest, nor is there any desire to seek one out. He’s mostly alone in Kady’s apartment where days seem to stream around his periphery, as though he’s looking back out of a car window, the world vanishing in smears of light and colour.

Quentin’s alive, and he doesn’t know what to do with that information, how to turn the bare fact of it into a material reality. Time is slipping in high gear while his internal clock drags behind, losing minutes then hours at a time. In the short time he’s been dead, everyone else’s lives seem to have changed so much. Alice inexplicably works for the Library now and is busy all hours. Quentin’s seen her a couple of times, and they’d had a conversation over coffee at the penthouse kitchen table, Alice’s hands folded neatly, her face kind. She didn’t expect or want anything romantic from him, she’d said, and Quentin had appreciated the direct and unequivocal phrasing. Alice hoped they could be friends, and Quentin had numbly agreed that this was for the best. Given his current state, Quentin doesn’t think he would’ve had much to bring to a relationship. When he remembers getting back together with Alice, Quentin can’t quite connect the memory to the parts of him which, logically, must have had feelings about it. As far as he can tell, it seems like something he would’ve been very happy about—after all, it was something he’d wanted for such a long time. Then there’s the added complication of Alice being the driving force behind his resurrection, something he’s not quite sure what to make of, given how mad she’d been when he’d done the same for her. Thinking about all of this is exhausting, and so, he mostly doesn’t.

He hasn’t seen much of Julia, either. Only a couple of days after he’d come back, she’d very apologetically jumped through a portal to Spain—some big hedge summit that she’d offered to skip, but Quentin figured she’d done enough for him, and told her in no uncertain terms to get her ass out of here. Julia’s been working with Kady and an international group of hedges, something to do with a big collaboration and liaising with a new professor at Brakebills. He’s not sure, really, but he knows they’re working on something that Julia’s excited about. It’s odd that he doesn’t miss her more. It feels like he hasn’t seen Julia, or any of his friends for a very long time, which, he supposes, is true. 

Quentin spends most of his days waiting for them to end. Sometimes he sits downstairs and reads the books that Julia leaves out for him, retaining very little of their contents. He sleeps to reduce the amount of hours he has to spend awake. Mostly, he sits in his room with endless loops of Star Trek on in the background. It’s nice to have a soundtrack to the nothingness. 

Strangely enough, Kady’s probably the person he sees most. Well, not that strange, considering he’s still crashing in her apartment. But they’re not exactly close, even after all they’ve been through together with the Beast and the key quest… In fact, Quentin’s not entirely sure whether he likes Kady, and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t like him. Nonetheless, they’re slumped at either end of the couch, mostly ignoring a terrible movie one night, when Kady turns to face him (the blonde scream queen is getting stabbed in the gut), probably to ask if he wants a soda or some chips, but the light from the screen flickers strangely across her face and Quentin gets a prickle of déjà vu as something occurs to him. That in itself is curious, for Quentin no longer appears to be the sort of person to whom very much occurs at all. He decides to go with it. “Okay, this is gonna sound weird, but, um. I had a dream about you?”

Kady fixes him with one of her hard stares. “This story had better be PG-13, Coldwater.”

He pauses for a moment too long while he tries to remember how he might’ve responded to something like this… before. Probably he’s taking too long though, because Kady takes pity on him. “You said that before. That you, uh, dreamed about me. Right after you came back.”

“Yeah,” Quentin manages, mouth thick with words he doesn’t know how to say.

Kady’s unusually patient with him while he tells her about the dream and her unexpected cameo. “So, it wasn’t anything, you know. _Weird_ ,” he finishes awkwardly. Good to know his inherent social maladjustment has remained intact.

And then Kady tells him an astonishing story of incepting his consciousness in a world between worlds where somehow he’d gotten trapped—that part isn’t clear, but the rest is unreal enough that those details recede from view. “The dream I had,” Quentin says slowly. “About you. Before, I mean. I don’t really remember it. But it wasn’t a dream, was it? You were really there. That was you trying to save me.”

“Yeah,” Kady says, looking mildly uncomfortable. “Sorry, I didn’t know what to say right after you came back. You were kinda disoriented and… well. So was I, to be honest.”

“No, I get it,” Quentin says automatically, without stopping to think about whether he does in fact get it.

“You don’t remember, then? What happened while I was there?”

Quentin shakes his head and something unusual happens: he wants to know. There’s something like desire splintering in his gut. He’s going to follow its path, see what it wants.

“Well, it’s obviously kicking around in there somewhere.” Kady hums, leaning back against the cushions. “You said that to me, about the bell. It was fucking creepy as shit.”

“I said that to you? That you can’t unring a bell?”

“Wow, you _really_ don’t remember.” Kady pushes her wild curls back from her face. “You kept, like, incepting me back. Pretty much reading my mind—it was kinda annoying.” Kady tempers this with a small smile, which Quentin manages to return without it turning into too much of a grimace.

“So, uh. What juicy gossip did I incept from you?” Quentin asks slowly, trying to recover some sense of how conversation is supposed to work. Joking. Keeping things light. It was never exactly his forte to begin with. Kady sparks up a joint, taking a long drag and passing it over. She sighs, hands tapping at her knees. Clearly, his attempt has missed the mark.

“We weren’t exactly playing truth or dare, you know? You were kind of—you said it out of nowhere. The thing about the bell—that’s something one of Reynard’s lackeys said to me and Julia once, right before—”

“Before everything went to hell.”

“Right. I guess that’s what your subconscious is remembering now.”

“Pretty rude of me, reading your mind and all,” he says weakly. “Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, there was a bunch of other cryptic shit you were saying too. About the point of no return and—are you okay?”

Quentin stubs out the joint, arms tingling, vision blurring. His brain is collapsing, a slow caving of rockfall and rubble. “The point of no return,” he repeats. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against the erratic beat of his heart. He releases the pressure. It doesn’t help.

“Quentin?”

His eyes won’t open; he doesn’t want them to. His fingers clench around his heart, thumb digging into his sternum.

“Motherfucker,” he hears Kady say, somewhere in the distance, her voice fading into the black. “Quentin—shit. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he says. His stomach’s tight and unsettled and whatever he’d thought he wanted to know, it suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

When he opens his eyes, Kady’s looking at him with concern, which in itself is rather concerning. “Christ. Keep your fucking eyes open, okay? Look, your brain’s probably still working on some shit. You had a lot going on in there.”

“Right, the monster and stuff—Julia said.”

“Sure,” Kady says slowly, tilting her head slightly like she’s debating something. “You had a rough time of it, before you died.”

“Right,” Quentin says again. Kady doesn’t offer any more information, and he doesn’t ask. Dreams are weird. Coming back from the dead is weirder. His brain is working shit out. With that settled, Quentin flips through the channels while Kady grabs some popcorn. The conversation seems to have shifted something between them, or perhaps it’s something in Quentin that’s shifted. Whatever it is, he feels for the first time in the few weeks he’s been back, as though he’s not simply existing in Kady’s presence but that he’s actually there, doing something real, even if all they’re really doing is half-watching another terrible movie. Suddenly it feels like they’re doing it together, and that makes all the difference.

*

Quentin’s ready for the dream this time, and he thinks he can ignore the bell while he waits for Kady to show up, but the clang of it is insistence, a throb echoing in space between the bones of his skull and the cavern of his belly. Kady never arrives. Quentin’s made his decision; there’s nothing to be done. His skin vibrates its resonance and when he opens his mouth all that emerges is its sound.

*

Quentin wakes up thoroughly unsettled. He stays in bed, picking up a doorstopper fantasy novel from the bedside cabinet that Julia had recommended. After a while, he realises it’s past noon and he still hasn’t eaten, but there’s nobody around to shoot worried glances at him, so Quentin dutifully turns the pages, hoping that if he keeps going then he’ll feel like getting up soon. He skims over the words with a ferocious, paralysing hunger. He has no idea what the story is about. He reads and reads. Eventually, he falls asleep again. It’s evening when he wakes, head woolly and tight like a sweater shrunk in the wash. He licks his lips experimentally. The longer he stays still, the harder it is to move, but he can’t make himself do it. He needs to pee, quite urgently, but doesn’t get up.

He slips into the dark room where the bell keeps ringing and doesn’t emerge until the next day. When he wakes, Quentin still needs to pee, which really ought to be a motivator here, but when he imagines making it all the way to the bathroom, it seems like a mountain of a quest to complete. Which is obviously ridiculous. He’s been on actual quests with real purpose, though he can’t fathom how he ever wrangled this sack of decaying meat into taking any kind of definitive action. The thought gives him pause. Because, sure, he hasn’t exactly been feeling… well. Much of anything. But he also hasn’t had these kinds of self-loathing thoughts since his return from the dead. He’d hoped, perhaps foolishly given his track record of hoping such things, that maybe this was finally it, that the resurrection had sparked the right neurons or cleared out his brain somehow, wiped it clean of the sickness that’s dragged him down his entire life. Evidently not.

It takes him another hour, but eventually something—is it his brain, or his body? He doesn’t know. Something lets him up and out of the thick despair of his bedroom and into the bathroom down the hall, where he pees, painfully. His muscles ache with disuse, every movement jarring his bones. Although a shower would be the next logical step, all Quentin wants is to return to the safety of his room. He’s on his way back when the apartment door slams, a burst of chatter emanating from the living room. Slow pinpricks of dread spike through his chest. Quentin freezes, breath quickening as he hears footsteps on the staircase, which he needs to pass to reach his bedroom. _Fuck_. Adrenaline jerks in his veins. Nobody can see him like this; he can’t see anybody like this. He turns quickly, trying not to actually run, and makes it back to the bathroom without being seen. His heart is hammering, but. He’s safe. He drags his hands down his face, sliding to the floor. He’s hiding in the bathroom, but. He’s safe. A sharp knock startles him up and off the floor. Terror clamps like a hand around his throat, and he can’t—Quentin can’t _breathe_. He should say something—something normal like, ‘I’m in here,’ or ‘I’m taking a shower’, but he doesn’t; any and all forms of communication that might’ve made their way out of him are knotted up, strangled in his chest.

A shower, though. The idea is suddenly a lot more appealing. He switches the water on, fumbling with the lever, relieved that he can no longer hear anything from outside the bathroom. The sound of the spray beating down is almost calming. As he strips off his grimy clothes, the blistering surge of panic fades to a dull throb. He stumbles into the cubicle and clumsily sits, drawing his knees up to his chest and letting his head drop, hot water streaming over him, pounding in his ears and blocking out the world waiting for him downstairs.

Eventually, the water runs cold. Shivering, Quentin drags himself out of the shower. His pyjamas are gross, but he pulls them back on anyway. Cracks the door; the apartment is shadowy and silent. He creeps back to his bedroom, where he drifts into the dark room.

When Quentin wakes again, it’s because Julia’s shaking him. He says her name drowsily, mouth heavy with sleep. 

“Are you sick?”

“What—day? What day is it?” He presses his palm to his temple, grimacing. 

“Tuesday. I just got back this morning.”

Tuesday. The sound is meaningless, and Julia is looking at him, so he tries again. “How long’ve I been asleep?”

“I dunno, Kady said she’s not seen you for three days. Have you been asleep all this time?”

“No, ah. I don’t think so?” Quentin hauls himself upright, conscious of his filthy sweat-stained t-shirt and the dank fester of the room.

“Hmm. Are you running a fever?” She gives him a once-over, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. Long ago, Quentin had learned to pass off his “episodes” as physical illnesses, which were more palatable and drew more compassion than the truth, though inevitably any kindness offered felt like something he’d tricked out of his teachers and his dad, like something he didn’t truly deserve. It’d worked though, to get them off his back, and so he goes along with it now, even as he can sense that Julia doesn’t believe him.

“Yeah, I think I’m over the worst of it now? Thanks. Didn’t mean to worry you. I should, um. Shower. Probably. Feeling kinda like the inside of a trash bag right now.”

“Yeah, maybe crack a window,” Julia says with a hint of a teasing smile. “Getting some real junk yard vibes in here.”

Quentin laughs, the sound filling the hollow space inside of him.

“Listen though, a few of the gang are coming over tonight, if you’re up for it? Alice’ll be late, but Eliot and Margo are coming over for dinner, and Kady too. I thought it’d be nice for you—for us all to catch up.”

Quentin can’t say why exactly, for this sounds like exactly the kind of thing he ought to want, but he already knows there’s no way he can face them all. Even just sitting here with Julia is taking everything he has. She’s looking at him so hopefully though, and so he makes an agreeable sort of sound, feeling mildly guilty when a relieved smile breaks over her face. Anyway, who knows? Maybe by tonight he’ll be himself again. With a jolt Quentin realises that this means there’s a self he ought to be but isn’t. He lets this observation slide back into his brain mush, soon to be forgotten.

Later, he does try. He ignores the clench in his throat, dresses as though he’s going to join everyone, making it as far as the top of the stairs, where he hears a newly arrived Margo proclaim that she’s gonna make Ess eat her shit and then shit it out and eat it again, and sees Eliot pulling Julia into a hug and kissing her cheek, all of them laughing together. Terror wraps like barbed wire around his guts. He can’t—it's not—

Quentin does what he knew all along he’d do, and retreats to his bedroom, heart skittering wildly. Why had he agreed to this? Why hadn’t he told Julia that he didn’t want to see anyone? There just hadn’t seemed to be a good enough reason to say no. Part of him had really wanted it to be okay. Had hoped that he would reach the top of the stairs and something would just _click_ into place and he’d slip back into his life again, asking Margo about Fillory, listening to Eliot’s grand stories, snuggling up with Julia on the couch. 

Part of him _does_ want it. But a well-worn dread grips his insides at the click of Julia’s heels in the hallway. Leaning upright against the headboard, Quentin prays she doesn’t come in to check on him again, but of course, it’s Julia, so there’s zero chance of Quentin’s wish being granted. 

“You’re not coming downstairs,” she says, settling onto the bed next to him. It’s not a question. Julia knows him far too fucking well to bother with questions she already knows the answers to. He mumbles something about not feeling well, irritated to be in the position of making these excuses to Julia, who, after all, is not his fucking mother. And perhaps more irritated still that it would never have occurred to Quentin to lie to his actual mother about being sick, primarily because it wouldn’t have occurred to her to care if he had.

Julia cares. And she definitely doesn’t believe him. After all, “Are you sure?” isn’t really something you usually ask sick people. 

“Look, it hasn’t even been that long…” Since they’d dragged him back from—where, even? He can barely bring himself to wonder or care. The very fact that he can’t remember dying or being dead already makes it far preferable to being here, this place he’s beginning to remember now with more clarity and severity than he’d like, and—holy shit, this must be exactly how Alice had felt when he brought her back to life. Resentful and, and—well, maybe not exactly how Alice had felt because there the comparison ends. Because she’d been so fucking _mad_. At nothing and everything, at everyone and no one in particular. At _him_ in particular. 

Quentin isn’t mad, but he remembers what it’s like, that stuttering rage pulsing hot in his veins, skin throbbing with it—all of his stupid fucking feelings needling out of him in shitty little snipes and self-righteous sneers. But he’s not angry right now. It’s more like—Quentin doesn’t remember dying, but he knows that he died, and therefore he was _done_. All his life, all Quentin has ever wanted to be is _done_. And apparently, he was. He knows it’s not something anyone is supposed to want, but he’d hardly had a choice in the matter. Or, had he? _Happiness is a choice_ , Quentin's dickhead college counselor, Andrew, had obnoxiously informed him in every single one of the six sessions Julia had bullied him into attending. An ugly prickle of something he can’t name creeps over his skin. “I just need some space,” he says, feeling like a sullen teenager all over again and resenting Julia deeply for catapulting him back in time. 

“I think you need more than that.” Julia curls a long strand of hair around her fingertip and pulls it tight, something she used to do in exam season and never grew out of. “Whenever you felt like this before, the meds really seemed to help, so maybe—”

“Not really. Not that much. Anyway, you’re not my doctor.” Quentin doesn’t think he says it with any particular inflection, that he’s merely stating a fact, but Julia is clearly somewhat taken aback. 

“Of course not,” she says. “But, okay, maybe we can get you an appointment with one?”

“I’m not—I don’t need that.”

“Sure, but there’s always therapy—”

“You’re not listening. Just—just leave it, okay?” There’s a definite inflection this time, a rising hint of irritation curdling in his belly and plucking at his vocal chords, making his voice come out even more nasally than usual. Julia doesn’t look hurt, though, or surprised. Just worried. Quentin’s so fucking sick of seeing that look on Julia’s face, knowing that he put it there, that it’s somehow within his power to wipe the slate clean but he doesn’t know where to begin. Part of him wants to submit to Julia’s idea of care—because it’s easier than resisting? Because what if it helps this time? What if there’s something he can do to _end_ the unrelenting noise in his head and he’s just not fucking doing it? See, that dickhead Andrew was right, wasn’t he? Fresh-faced and newly qualified as a counselor, barely out of college himself; he told Quentin everything he needed to know years ago, and he’s done fuck all to help himself since. 

“I just need to get some sleep,” Quentin says in his normal voice, or something close enough, and Julia says she’ll tell everyone he says hello, though he has in fact said no such thing. He breathes out stiffly as she finally goes, Julia’s footsteps fade into the downstairs chatter, he waits for them all to leave.

*

As it turns out, Quentin’s brain is more broken than ever. He can’t seem to rise from his stupor for more than a day or so at a time before slipping back into the darkness. Quentin can tell Julia’s doing her best to dial down her worry, but he can feel it radiating from her every time she looks at him, and so he begins to spend more and more time alone in his room to dodge her concern. In fact, he’s inadvertently slipped into a nocturnal sleeping pattern. Mainly, this is to avoid everyone, not just Julia. The penthouse is quite the thoroughfare, with hedges dropping by all hours of the day, and he hears Margo and Eliot’s voices a few times too. Quentin’s managed quite well and not seen anyone for days, but his stash of cereal and granola bars has reached critical levels. Despite sleeping for about fourteen hours, Quentin’s exhausted. A coffee, he thinks dimly, that’s what he’d do if he were a person.

It sounds nice. Hot and bitter, and although Quentin’s not especially keen to be awake, nor does he especially want to go back to sleep. Besides, it’s after eleven-thirty, so hopefully there won’t be anyone around. He’s shuffling around the kitchen aimlessly, having to open every drawer before he remembers he’s looking for a spoon, and everything he touches feels alien against his skin; the too-smooth surface of the cupboard door, the cold metal of the coffee machine which is now beginning to grumble and so he swivels around to find his second favourite mug, having left his actual favourite upstairs and Eliot’s right there, the sight of him so unexpected it knocks loose something Quentin isn’t ready for.

Eliot’s already retreating, hands up in contrition as Quentin stumbles back against the counter in what feels like more than the mundane fright of simply being startled. Eliot’s asking something and repeating it, and something is happening, something Quentin doesn’t have words for but he’s been here before, with Eliot, and something terrible had happened then, something Quentin didn’t know how to fight, and it was always happening and wouldn’t ever stop.

It seems like an incredibly melodramatic thing to say, so instead Quentin apologises, a few too many times, trying to cover the panic burning a hole in his chest by asking, “How’ve you been?”—a question which Eliot answers with a pained sort of smile. Which, of course he does; what an inane thing to say. His teeth mash together painfully. These kinds of thoughts have been creeping back in, taking up more and more space inside his skull.

“Q,” Eliot says, looking unexpectedly earnest for a fleeting moment. “I—I’m sorry I scared you.” He leans in as if to touch Quentin’s shoulder, withdrawing immediately when Quentin flinches. “Right. Listen, I’m sorry. I’m, I have to head off right away, so…”

Eliot leaves, presumably without whatever he came here for. He couldn’t get out of the apartment fast enough once he saw Quentin. Still, Quentin breathes a little more evenly with Eliot gone, wincing as he unfurls his hands from their tight grip on the countertop behind him. Wearily, Quentin finds the mug he’d been looking for on the draining board and pours the coffee he no longer wants. When he takes a sip, it’s freezing. Not cold like he’s fucked up the machine somehow, but with like, actual shards of ice in it. Weird. He tips it into the sink, washes his hands, drudges back upstairs. Quentin’s heart is a racetrack and he doesn’t know why. Seeing Eliot was—a lot, for some reason. It’s put him on edge, chest tight with adrenaline as though he’s fleeing something that can never be outrun.

Unsure what to do with himself after having napped the entire day away, he flicks through the channels idly, but after about ten minutes of this there’s nothing that interests him. He switches off the TV. For lack of anything better to do, Quentin slumps back against the pillows and sleeps for a long time, waking for brief intervals in which he’s fully conscious but unable to move, a deep, rumbling pressure bearing down on him, the intensity of it terrifying as it pulls him back into the dark.

*

When he wakes up (the next day? Quentin’s not totally certain), he knows logically that it was the monster he’d dreamed about. It must have been the monster and yet it had felt like Eliot with his hand tight at Quentin’s throat, Eliot slashing a man’s guts open, Eliot’s head on his shoulder, Eliot’s weight a sinking ship dragging him to the ocean floor, Eliot stumbling and knocking back tequila, scrabbling at the floor for pills, more pills, his hands always on Quentin, always wanting things from him. Eliot’s face distorted by the monster’s frantic grin, the cruel gloss of Eliot’s eyes. Eliot, Eliot, Eliot—would never do those things. Eliot had loved Quentin. Eliot had been his best friend. Eliot had been—a lot more than that, once. Eliot had gotten lost and Quentin had tried to save him.

But Quentin is lost too, and the dream has cracked him open; the splinter of curiosity he felt while sitting downstairs with Kady has gaped into a cavern. Emotions he’d never wanted to feel again are swelling through the split of his ribs, sticking to his guts and emptying out of him in great, wracking sobs. Clutching fruitlessly at his chest, his stomach, Quentin can’t make sense of what’s happening; why he’s crying and why he can’t stop. Yet even as terrible savage sounds are wrenched from his throat, he remembers from long and bitter experience that the body simply can’t sustain such emotional intensity for long. Or, _this too shall pass_ , as his dad would say with an awkward hug while he tried, however clumsily, to comfort his son. He was right, too; Quentin knows that it’ll end if he waits long enough, but what his dad had never been able to account for is that what will pass will return again and again as it always has.

It subsides eventually, as predicted. Wrung out, insides disordered by the sudden magnitude of feeling that’s been unleashed in him, Quentin lies back, shivering as the cold air pricks at his skin. He feels like a cupboard that’s been ransacked, jars upturned and smashed, contents oozing onto the countertop. He’s not going to get up today and it’s best to accept this fact. Quentin’s going to spend the day slipping fitfully in and out of countless rooms; some black and unending, others blinding him with light, but all of them wanting to keep him lying here forever still and it’s awful, but Quentin wants the surrender of it, too. It hits him hard as his eyes close how good it’d been not to feel things and he misses it with a deep and aching fervour. Fuck, he’s beginning to understand why Julia had seemed so alive without her shade, why Alice misses being a Niffin. Because if this is what he was like before, Quentin doesn’t want any part of it. He senses there’s little he can do about it now. This too is not unfamiliar; another bell he can’t unring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the aftermath of Quentin's resurrection, and a lot of time is spent in his headspace when he's numb, depressed, confused, suffering from trauma and PTSD and generally in a pretty bad way. This makes up the meat of the chapter, so I wouldn't say it's very skippable.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Eliot. Um, hey.” Quentin stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, letting his gym bag drop to the floor._
> 
> _“Quentin!” Eliot lights up, looking pleased, though curiously perhaps just as startled as Quentin. “It’s good to see you." He begins to walk over, then seems to second guess himself, standing behind the couch and leaving more distance between them than Quentin remembers there ever being. “You look—good."_
> 
> _Rolling his eyes, Quentin becomes conscious of his baggy grey shirt and dumb shorts in a way he hadn’t been a second ago. “Okay, come on. I look like shit—you can say it.”_
> 
> _It’s true, he does. Suddenly and inexplicably, Quentin wishes he’d shaved this morning, or like, dragged a comb through his hair at the very least._
> 
> _“You never could,” Eliot says lightly. “But—is everything okay?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes at the end about some brief monster fuckery, and thanks as always to the wonderful Rubick and hoko_onchi for betaing.

Eliot fucking hates therapy. He hates the way his heart rate picks up before he enters the room, the adrenaline that crashes through his system in the aftermath. He hates being here. Sitting in this stupid fucking chair, talking and talking, and never getting anywhere.

He hates the way Laura steeples her fingers, the appraising looks she gives him before saying things like, “So, you chose the day after Quentin’s resurrection to talk to him about your conversation in the throne room.” He hates that she always wants to talk about Quentin.

“I _know_ ,” Eliot grinds out. He hates the way his voice comes out at a higher pitch, a shrill tremble that reminds him exactly how young and dumb and desperate he once was. “I know, okay? Bad timing. Terrible idea. I fucked up. Again.” His hands clench in his lap. “God, Quentin will hardly even look at me.”

“How is Quentin managing the transition?”

He lets out a tight exhale. “Not great. Julia’s been keeping us all updated, but she’s protective of him—understandably. I don’t know all the details, but he’s not functioning very well right now. Which isn’t surprising, considering the reason he died in the first place. He’s not really talking to anyone but Julia—and Kady, weirdly? But I don’t get the impression he even talks to them all that much. So, I guess it’s not entirely personal.”

The talking isn’t even that bad, once he gets going. At least, not these small cuts. The lighter appetisers served before the all-you-can-eat banquet of pain and tragedy.

“I don’t even know what he remembers about—the monster.” His eyes drop to the floor. “But aside from that, Q’s pre-homicidal monster memories of me are… also not great.”

“Have you tried talking to him again?”

“I told you, he practically jumped out of his skin when I saw him in the kitchen that night.” Eliot gives a hollow laugh. “The way he looked at me was—” Now that he’s more attuned to his body and emotions than he’s ever aspired to be, Eliot can sometimes sense when a surge is about to happen. This one crawls from his gut to his throat, like choking on his own magic. He’d never admit it, but it _is_ kinda satisfying when several deep gouges slash into the wall, plaster crumbling in their wake.

“It looks like you’re losing control.”

“And your observational skills are top notch,” he snaps, out of habit more than any true ire.

Laura ignores his outburst. “I’m interested in what you were about to say before the surge—how did Quentin look at you?”

Eliot ignores her question. “I’m so sick of talking about all my bullshit.”

“Your feelings aren’t bullshit; quite the opposite.”

“Oh, for—you don’t have to take everything I say so seriously, you know,” Eliot says, head tipping back in frustration. They’ve been here before, and they’ll keep circling back. Always digging up the same old shit and burying it again, never quite getting to the root of things. Eliot is sick of this, too.

“Hazard of the job, unfortunately.” Laura flashes him a quick smile that only makes him feel more irritated. “How did Quentin look at you?” she repeats, and this time, when the walls start shaking, it’s like the magic is stuck inside him, an insistent judder at the core of him, trapped.

“Like I was his worst goddamn nightmare come to life.”

Eliot waits. He knows exactly what comes next.

Right on cue, Laura asks the question she always asks; the question thousands of therapists have asked in these bright, impersonal rooms where thousands of fuckups just like Eliot have come to rip themselves open week after fucking week:

“How did that make you feel?”

“How the fuck do you think it made me feel?” The words are full of anger, but Eliot’s voice is empty.

“I’m asking you.”

“Guilty, all right? I let the monster out, that’s on me.” Not untrue, but really, come the fuck on.

“Because the other option was letting Quentin spend an eternity alone with it,” she says. “With hindsight, there were things you could’ve handled better, but you were doing the best you could. Last time we talked about this, you seemed to be much more accepting of your decision. Has that changed, or is there something else going on?”

“I’m worried about him, obviously.” Switching gears, deflecting, prolonging the inevitable. Eliot really is sick of his bullshit. Laura doesn’t say anything, just waits. Even though he knows she can see right through his prevarication, his flimsy barriers, Eliot can’t help himself; he literally doesn’t know how to go about this any other way.

“I don’t know what you want from me here,” he lies.

“Eliot.” Her neutral compassion makes his stomach turn. “If you want to change the subject, that option is always available. Or, if you want me to push you to talk about this, I certainly can, but I think we need to be very clear about what’s happening here.”

Eliot pinches the bridge of his nose. “God. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you keep everything locked inside until something pushes you to the brink. Then, you’re able to rationalise that it’s not your fault when it all spills out. It’s an unconscious coping mechanism, one that’s obviously helped you to manage shame around your emotions, but it’s not healthy in the long term. So, if you want me to push you to talk about Quentin, I can play that role—if you ask me to. Because you’re in control here, Eliot. We need to be clear about that.”

His heart jumps, as it always does at the mere mention of the word _shame_. “Okay, but that’s just stupid.” He makes sure to look squarely at her, a decision he regrets when he sees the knowing tilt of her head—a gesture that encapsulates everything Eliot knew he’d hate about therapy.

“Is it? Think about it for a moment. Have there ever been times when you’ve been pushed to the brink like this?”

“No,” he responds, much too quickly to be believable. He thinks about it. Really thinks. About Margo itemising every last one of his hang ups until he couldn’t breathe. About the reason he’d had to come here in the first place, because he couldn’t keep his shit tight. Eliot wonders if he’d ever have admitted his feelings for Quentin, even to himself, if not for the monster forcing his hand, locking him up in his own brain and giving him two options: deal with your dumb feelings, or die.

Well, fuck.

Head bowing under the weight of past mistakes, and probably future ones, too, Eliot breathes in through his nose and out again, letting his shoulders drop in a deliberate effort to let the fight go out of him. “You might be somewhere in the region of not entirely wrong.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

This startles a huff of laughter out of him. “Fine, okay, you win. What now?”

“It’s not about winning. And it’s up to you now. I can push you to talk about Quentin, or we can talk about something else.”

Last line of defence now fully dismantled, Eliot leans back in his chair, crosses and then uncrosses his legs. “Go on then,” he says, looking past Laura toward the bookshelf in the corner of the room. “Do your worst.”

“How did you feel when Quentin looked at you that night in the kitchen?” 

He sighs. The last thing he wants to do is _identify_ and _acknowledge_ his emotions. God, what’s become of him? Eliot Waugh, former hedonist and king of fucking Fillory—reduced to writing diaries about his poor little fee-fees. Well, it might not be as much fun as drinking, but Eliot has to admit that all the talking and the journaling is actually helping—both with regulating the surges and managing the emotions that underpin them. It’s harder to admit that he’s still grieving the loss of Quentin, even after his return from the dead. Eliot had thought that once Quentin was back, he would feel… better. And he does. Of course he does. Of course he’s thankful, grateful, glad, relieved— but language can only take him so far; it can’t close the gap between the inside of his body and the world outside. It can’t help Eliot express how he feels now that Quentin’s _alive_.

Laura’s waiting, ever-patient. Right. How did he feel when Quentin flinched away from him, backing up against the kitchen counter in absolute terror? Hurt, heartbroken (lonely, he’s so fucking lonely—but that’s nothing new). 

“I was worried. About Quentin. He’s obviously not doing well. And.” Teeth gritting. “I’m worried he hates me. That we’ll never be friends again. That all he sees when he looks at me is the monster.”

“Is this something that’s happened with your other friends? Have any of them had trouble telling the difference between you and the monster?”

“No, but it’s different with Quentin. The monster, it. Liked him.”

Carefully, Laura asks, “When you say it liked him, what exactly do you mean?”

“Julia said it was always _touching_ him.” He shudders, looking down at his hands. The hands that Quentin had once loved, the hands Quentin no longer wants anywhere near him.

“I see.”

“I still dream about it sometimes. Just fragments and flashes, but. I’ve seen enough to know how bad it was.” Eliot’s mentioned his dreams before, but he’s never talked about them. After all, it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of other issues to dig up. They’ve been busy, he and Laura, over these past months.

“Would you like to talk about the dreams now?”

No, he really fucking would not. He especially doesn’t want to talk about the vivid bursts of déjà vu—irregular jolts of sound and colour— things that never happened to him—

—taunting Quentin, touching, always touching, hands eager and sick to his core with _wanting_ him so badly it hurt, so badly he’d do anything to get what he wanted.

He wanted things he shouldn’t; Eliot always has.

“It hurt him. I hurt him.”

“It hurt him,” she says. “Not you. I know you feel guilty for the role you played, but you’re not responsible for anything the monster did—”

“ _I_ hurt him. Before that.”

“When you turned him down?”

“It was cruel what I said to him, yeah. But more than that. Pretending none of it mattered to me, like I was so above it all. Running out on him after we—slept together.” God, why is he talking about this, _again_? Taking the same wrong turns, tracing the same patterns _again_ (and again and again and—).

“It’s true, you’ve said and done some very hurtful things. And now, it seems like you have a unique opportunity to apologise to Quentin, but instead, you’re avoiding him.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , of course I am. I’m giving him space. He doesn’t want to see me, that’s pretty fucking clear.”

Laura persists. “You told me that your biggest regret was pushing Quentin away in the throne room that day. That you never got the chance to make it right with him.”

Shit. Eliot’s caught. She’s right, of course. But— “Maybe that was a stupid goddamn thing to want in the first place,” he hears himself say. “Like any of this can ever be made _right_.”

“Eliot,” she says, so fucking gently it makes him want to scream.

He really doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s gonna say next, so he just admits it. “I don’t know how.” Of course he wants to make things right. Doesn’t mean it’s possible. But he wants it. (Eliot can’t explain why, but— he doesn’t get what he wants. He _shouldn’t_.)

(This seems like the sort of thing he ought to bring up with Laura, but he doesn’t.)

“It was easier when it was theoretical. It seemed like something I might actually be brave enough to do. In reality, I’m right back where I started. I promised myself I wasn’t going to be afraid of what I—” Stomach seizing, he has to stop. Nothing good can grow from Eliot’s wanting. He should know that by now. “I can’t even say it. Fuck. I thought that—I was supposed to… Things were meant to be different. _I_ was meant to be different.” He averts his gaze, fearing the compassion he might have to endure if he doesn’t. “But I’m not.”

*

When Julia wakes him this time, the game is up. Neither of them bother pretending he has a fever or that anything is wrong besides Quentin himself. Julia’s witnessed far too many of his breakdowns by now. The shame of it unravels quietly beneath his sternum as she sits by his bedside.

“Q,” she begins uncertainly, and then with more conviction, “you have to tell me what’s going on, okay? I’m worried about you. If something’s happening, let me help.”

Quentin’s head is thick with the rhythm of her voice and he knows he’s staring at Julia, can see that he’s frightening her, but he can’t seem to make his mouth form the words to reassure her that he really is fine. All that comes out when his mouth finally opens is yet another sob; his chest seizes with yet more shame.

“You can tell me anything,” Julia whispers, hugging him tightly, too tightly, “you know that, please tell me you know that?” It’s a shock to his system, such basic human contact. Julia’s arms around his shoulders are familiar, soothing, comforting. It makes him cringe, makes him want to tear his skin off.

“Jules, fuck.” He wipes the back of his hand against his eyes. “I know you said I didn’t come back wrong, but I must have, okay, because I couldn’t feel anything and it was so good, and now I can feel everything and it's, it’s—” He breaks off with a shudder, a fresh stream of tears pouring hot over his cheeks. God, he doesn’t want Julia to see him like this. It’s so—it’s embarrassing, and even more humiliating is that more than anything Quentin still wants Julia to _save_ him. He thought he’d purged the repulsive, needy, awful part of him that’s always wanted that from her to some degree, but apparently not. He’d once poured all of his self-loathing into loving her, thinking that if she loved him back that it would fix him, but he knows now that it wouldn’t have, and he knows now that nothing ever could.

“Kady told me you had that dream about her, about the bell and what happened in the between-world.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Does this—did you have any more dreams?”

“Yeah. Just. The same stuff.” He can’t bring himself to talk about the bell, the dark room, the stillness. And definitely not Eliot—not the monster. If he opens that door, there’s no telling what else might come through the gap. Julia looks at him more patiently than he deserves, looking like she might push him for more detail, but she doesn’t. She stands up. “Okay. We’re gonna get you up and out of here.”

Pathetically grateful and slightly resentful that Julia _is_ saving him, but that it’s not ever going to be enough, Quentin nods. Julia snaps her fingers into a tut, muttering something under her breath that instantly freshens the room. “Better, right?”

The sun glares through the curtains. “Better,” he agrees hoarsely.

“I should’ve been checking in with you more. I’m really sorry, Q.”

Quentin lets out a sharp little laugh, which Julia must’ve taken the wrong way, because she looks instantly hurt. “Shit, no, Jules. I just meant. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. That’s all.” Quentin wonders if that’s true. Because after all, if Julia hadn’t brought him back—but that’s not the kind of thing he’s meant to be thinking.

_God, can’t you just let her go? Julia’s got better things to do than clean up after your miserable carcass._

That’s not much better.

“Well, I am sorry,” she says. “And guess how I’m gonna make it up to you?” Her eyes are sparkling, enthusiasm infectious, and Quentin can’t help but smile weakly back at her. “Burritos the size of your head? Bad coffee and cigarettes?” She waves with jazz hands, flashing him an expectant smile. Puzzled, it takes Quentin a moment to remember. It’d been a ritual of theirs one heady summer after their gruelling first-year finals that had quickly become regular comfort. Though he isn’t really hungry, Quentin can’t remember when he last ate, and Julia is clearly putting a lot of effort into making him feel better, so he rallies as best he can.

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “Yeah, that sounds—really good, actually.” As he says the words, Quentin finds they become the truth. Memories of sitting across from Julia—and only Julia, never James, because it’d been their thing, the two of them. Joking, chain-smoking and arguing over philosophy and politics, throwing theories around to score points, being generally intellectually insufferable (that last one had perhaps been Quentin more than Julia). It’d been—things hadn’t always been—like this.

“Come on.” Julia’s hand is outstretched waiting for him and all he has to do is take it.

“You sure about that? Gonna get bed-cave and self-pity all over you,” Quentin jokes weakly. It’s gratifying when Julia quirks a half-grin at him, and he does it—he takes her hand.

“Yeah, you’re pretty gross right now, not gonna lie.” She doesn’t let go of his hand, though, not until she deposits him in the bathroom with a fresh towel. It’s embarrassing, requiring this level of supervision, especially from Julia, but at the same time he feels… weirdly cared for. And it makes showering seem marginally more doable. One thing at a time, he reminds himself. “I know, I know,” he answers under his breath. “You don’t want to, I get it, but…” An old therapy technique: _addressing yourself as ‘you’ instead of ‘I’ can reduce anxiety and negative self-talk_ , one of his first psychiatrists had told Quentin, staring down at her notes, hardly looking at him. His mind lags before dredging up her image—mid-forties, dark haired, distant—she was from the first clinic his dad had taken him to. She’d also told him that he needed to stop using Fillory as a coping mechanism and find other ways to manage his feelings. Which in retrospect… well, it doesn’t exactly matter now. She hadn’t offered him anything to replace Fillory with, and even if she had, back then Quentin had no desire to ever let go of Fillory. How things change. 

Quentin sighs, keeps talking to himself: j _ust keep going. Pick up the soap and, yeah, that’s it. Now the shampoo._ It goes like this until Quentin’s clean, and he’s starting to feel like if there’s another side, then he might actually make it there. “Okay, step out of the shower now,” he mumbles, the words bringing life to the action. “Towel’s next.” He’s not expecting to catch sight of himself; the mirror must have some fancy anti-fog charm on it. Fuck, but he looks awful. Grey and gaunt and very much in need of a shave, a task that’s far beyond him right now. He turns away from his frankly horrifying reflection and makes his way back to the bedroom, now light and airy, worlds apart from the tomb he’d left it. Julia’s laid out some clothes for him _seriously, you are so fucking tragic, is this what it’s come to?_ and tears threaten, but he tamps them down _(can I go one goddamn minute without crying please?)_ and pulls on the soft button down and black jeans she’s left for him, firmly ignoring the aching pit of humiliation at having his oldest friend pick out underwear for him. It’s new, at least. A small victory, but hey, Quentin’s gotta take them where he can. Julia having to deal with his underwear drawer is a step too far.

The outside world might also be a step too far, but before he can even think about backing out, Julia’s knocking at the door; he opens it, and she’s grinning at him, hauling him into a bear hug, linking an arm through his, leading him down the stairs. “You look great,” she says, and it’s so patently a lie, but Quentin appreciates her charitable interpretation of his horrifying appearance, nonetheless. “You ready?”

He’s really not.

“Don’t you have, I mean,” Quentin starts awkwardly. “I know you and Kady are working on important stuff, is all. I don’t want to waste your time.”

_Your entire existence is a waste._

“That,” Julia says firmly, “is absolute horseshit. Hanging out with my oldest and dearest friend is, like, the most important of stuff, and could never be a waste—” _you’re a waste of space—_ “besides, I’m starving. And we could get milkshakes after, or waffles, or, oh! I know this place—it’s great, it does these amazing deep fried avocado waffles.”

_You’ve wasted all this time trying to be a person, and you’ve got nothing to show for it._

Quentin’s nose wrinkles automatically and the words come out that way too, “Okay, you know that’s not people food, right?”

_You’re never gonna make it._

“C’mon, Q, you know you can’t deny me,” Julia says, cheeks dimpling as she laughs, dragging him out of the apartment and into the glare of the city, and more than anything Quentin wants to keep making her laugh. He resolves to do whatever he can to stop being the source of the furrowed brow Julia seems to wear whenever she looks at him these days.

*

Gradually, things become better than they were. Eliot no longer naps in fitful bursts throughout the day, and even occasionally sleeps through the night. His magic is still unpredictable, but the frequency of the surges drops from a daily to a weekly explosion count. He writes in his stupid journal every day (well, most days), but can’t be fucked to meditate anymore, not without the impetus of bringing his long-lost love back from the dead. Instead, he goes on long walks, discovering areas of Fillory he’s never bothered with before, given that the banks of the Burnt River and the trails into the Nameless Mountains hadn’t featured in any shady plots or world-ending quests. 

It’s on the way back from one of these walks that Eliot happens upon Rafe and Abigail arguing placidly in the castle gardens. As part of Fillory’s strides toward democracy, they're drafting a proposal for restructuring the royal council. Offering Eliot a chilled glass of fernroot juice, Rafe and Abigail ask him to weigh in on their debate, and, in the absence of anything better to do that evening, Eliot does. Essentially, Rafe’s argument is that it’s impractical for a representative from every single species of creature and talking animal to sit on the council, while Abigail reasons that the whole point of having a new council structure is to do things differently, and that there’s value in slowing down to hear the specific concerns of each demographic. 

Eliot listens carefully; there’s validity in both perspectives, and while Rafe and Abigail explain their arguments, he begins to sketch out the pros and cons. Before he knows it, Eliot’s embroiled in an impassioned, yet moderately temperate discussion, as a multitude of labyrinthine issues and obstacles sprout and spring to life. For instance, the census taken during Fillory’s first ever electoral race had revealed more inter-species divisions than anyone had ever cared to notice before, and not every group is even going to _want_ a seat on the council, or agree to be in the same room as their neighbours. And that’s not even getting started on the logistical issues of getting, say, the talking seals and otters of the Ochre Sea to send representatives, or if and how to form a government in alliance with the dryads and pixies, neither of whom have much reason to trust humans in general, or children of Earth in particular. Simply put, the whole thing is a fucking nightmare. And thus begins Eliot’s unofficial role in overhauling the council system to give everyone in Fillory a fair voice. Remarkably, he doesn't hate it; and, as the weeks slip by, he might even say he’s enjoying the challenge of a problem that’s actually worth solving. Which is how, without entirely meaning to, Eliot once again finds himself invested in Fillory’s future—and more importantly, in _his_ future. 

*

Something’s awakening in Quentin, and for once, it’s not something overtly terrible. At least, he doesn’t think so. He’s actually feeling… pretty good. Relatively speaking. Since he started dreaming about the bell and the dark room there’s only been space inside him for the lethargic existential dread that’s kept him in bed for the last week or so. Quentin had forgotten that even the most severe unhappiness can coexist with things like cracking jokes with his best friend and slurping down more milkshake than was perhaps wise. Sitting huddled up with Julia in the icy sunshine was both nostalgically familiar and enticingly new, a vision of how life might start to unfold for him if he could only figure out how to actually make it happen, how to sustain it. Perhaps the best part is that the day doesn’t end there. They walk at a brisk pace around the city, cheeks pink, frostbitten fingers, Julia doing most of the talking and Quentin happy to listen.

“I mean, it sucked a lot of the time, but in a way I’m glad I never went to Brakebills. Jane fucked up big time, but, I dunno. It doesn’t excuse her, obviously. I just—haven’t we all fucked up trying to do the right thing?”

If it’d been Quentin shut out of Brakebills, he’s certain he’d be nowhere near as gracious about it. He has no clue how Julia manages to be so resilient in the face of all the messed up shit that’s happened to her. It’s actually astounding. His brain leaps to make the comparison between Julia’s resilience and his own failures—and then Julia loops her arm through his and Quentin grins, relishing the dip in his belly that’s still cut through with that same old haunt of dread but which also carves out room for the pride he’s always taken in being Julia’s best friend.

“It’s crazy though, right? How we _literally_ used to pretend we were Jane and Martin. And how Jane just swooped in and totally uprooted our entire lives…” Julia trails off, that concerned furrow returned. “Are you okay?”

Quentin forces a smile. “Yeah! Of course. Just thinking. Like, without Jane and the Beast, we would’ve just… gone to Brakebills and learned magic and…” Now Quentin trails off, unable to sustain the casual tone he’s struck or to quite picture what this trauma-lite version of their lives might have looked like.

“I know, right?” Julia picks up the thread he’d left hanging, as she so often does, smoothing away his awkward pauses and filling in the gaps left by his poor social skills. “I can’t believe it sometimes. I dug out my old copy of _The World in the Walls_ and I still can’t get over that we’re in the goddamn books, Q. We are _in_ the _books_. It kinda blows my mind thinking about it.”

Quentin thinks his body might not be able to accommodate the lurch of something like happiness Julia’s words have produced in him. The feeling is produced less by the thought of Fillory, or, rather, by the thought of _Fillory and Further_ —something he hasn’t actually thought about once since his resurrection—and more by the visceral sense memory conjured by Julia’s smile; how happy they’d been that day, tumbling into Fillory after a young Jane Chatwin, their shared awe at the first sighting of Castle Whitespire, somewhere they’d once spent many an hour exploring together in Julia’s basement and his father’s garage. However bad things turned out, they’ll always have those few moments of wonder that nobody can take from them. “Hmm, I still feel like I was typecast, but sure, I guess it was kind of okay,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips as Julia punches him in the arm.

“Or, like, the actual most exciting thing that’s ever happened to us?” she says, the hyperbole sending him off balance as much as the way she’s bouncing a little on the balls of her feet and knocking into his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Quentin says, giving Julia a shoulder barge in return, both of them giggling like they used to. “It, like, literally is.” Maybe it really is, Quentin’s not sure. But hyperbole or not, this moment with Julia is a reminder that no matter how many times he dies, or how many wooden body parts he winds up with, some things might be worth living for. 

After Julia’s intervention, things are by no means easy, but neither are they quite as bone-wrenchingly awful either. He’d promised to text Julia with a dream update, and the next morning he taps out a quick message: _No action on dream watch last night_.

She replies immediately: _Great! Bagels?_

And so, they have breakfast. And the next evening they get pizza. He knows it’s all a ploy to get him eating more than granola and make him actually leave the penthouse on occasion, but it’s still nice. For the following week or so, Quentin eats regular meals, even if a fair majority of them are takeout, and he gets out of bed every morning before noon. He chalks it up as a success, even if it all feels pitifully small. He knows how lucky he is to have a friend like Julia, though why she wants to spend time with someone who can barely dress himself without having a panic attack about it is a lifelong mystery he’ll probably never solve. Julia’s been spending more and more time at the apartment lately, and though he feels guilty that she’s practically babysitting him, life is vastly improving with her around, and so he’s too pathetically grateful to even beat himself up about it all that much. He’s still having entirely too many feelings for a single human body to safely contain, but hanging out more with Julia and Kady is a welcome distraction. It helps him see beyond himself a little, something that’s never come naturally to him, and of which he’s always been deeply ashamed.

He breathes through a crashing wave of shame as he talks to Kady; she’s rolling her eyes, fiercely protective of the hedges she’s become an unofficial leader to, and self-deprecating about her own efforts to work on improving the safe house system that New York hedges are beholden to.

“We’re working on overhauling the entire thing—maybe the concept of safe houses started out well enough, but they’ve been anything but _safe_ for as long as I can remember. So, Julia’s linked up with this hedge professor at Brakebills, and we’re working on a new collaborative programme—by hedges, for hedges.”

This is what Julia’s been doing? Somehow in all this time, Quentin’s never asked. Not for real, not for details like this. _Because you’re a selfish prick. God, try thinking about someone else for once in your pathetic existence_. His neck hot with embarrassment, Quentin resolves to simply ask Julia, trying not to wallow about it. He asks Kady too, a steady stream of questions, and he’s struck by how animated she becomes the more she talks about collaboration and community, the way she leans forward, eye bright, intense, explaining their aim to put an end to the hedge culture of scarcity and fear; no more hoarding scraps of magic and stepping on each other for a few measly stars.

_Well, look at you. Trying to pretend you’re not a self-involved piece of—_

“No more of that shit,” Kady says, crossing an ankle over her knee and taking a sip of juice. “We’re recruiting right now, looking for international collaborators—Brakebills sort by discipline, but other schools work in totally different ways. And we’ve got enough division in the community as it is, so we’re looking for new ways to share skills and like, build on this shit together.”

“Hey,” a newly arrived Julia says, dropping her bag on the couch. “You guys are talking about the programme? Kady’s doing amazing work.”

Kady rolls her eyes again, but Quentin catches her faint smile and the way she glances back at Julia proudly. “It’s not much yet, and there’s still a ton we need to do to get things moving in the right direction, but yeah, I’m glad to be working on something I actually give two shits about.”

Yeah. Quentin thinks that does sound pretty nice, actually. “So, how are you recruiting people?”

“Mm, yeah, it’s tricky. Because we don’t want it to be this hierarchical thing, right? But it turns out to be really fucking hard _not_ to have anyone in charge of something like this. So, we’re still working it out. But basically, the idea is that you don’t have to be, like, the top of your field or some hotshot magician—anyone can bring anything to the table. We’ve got an herbalist group interested and a few of Marina’s old gang are pretty keen to be involved, though Marina herself has proven, uh, a little touchy on the subject. Oh, and Pete’s on board. He’s a dick, but he’s a well-connected dick, so we’re keeping him around.”

“That’s incredible,” Quentin says, and before he can think about it, he asks, “Can I do anything to help?” Even more incredibly, he means it. Over the last week or so, he’s begun to catch faint glimpses of himself, of who he was before, and he wants to become Quentin again, if he can. He’s fairly certain he can’t fulfill any promises though, and tells Kady as much, worried he’s committing to yet one more thing he won’t follow through with, like so many lost opportunities past.

“That’s good though,” Julia says later, once Kady’s gone out for the evening. “You don’t have to make some big gesture or save the day, you know? You can just come along and help out if you’re feeling up to it. No pressure. There’s always something that needs doing, and it’s all important work.”

With this in mind, Quentin tags along with Kady the next day to look at the space they’re renting. “Whoa, this place is amazing.” There’s one main room, large and echoey and a little ramshackle. The paint is peeling in flakes off the brickwork and there are grimy streaks of moss and dirt clinging to the windows, but he can imagine how light and airy it’ll be all spruced up and repainted. He runs his hands along the walls, leaving a trail behind him and gathering dust on his fingertips as he walks the perimeter. “I mean, it needs work, but seriously. Wow.”

Kady’s shifting on her feet, sprung with nervous energy. “Yeah, it’s not up to much right now, but the potential’s there.”

“How are you—sorry. I just—how are you guys paying for all of this? Did you rob another bank?”

“I fucking wish.” Kady’s mouth twists. “It’s actually the Library that’s funding it—yeah, I know. I’m as skeptical about it as you are, but Alice insists they’re good for it. Though Alice and the Library is another thing I’m skeptical about to be honest.”

Alice. Alice works for the Library. Another thing Quentin hasn’t thought to ask about. He wonders what else he’s missing, what else is going unasked, unnoticed by his mind, which seems determined to keep him in the dark. And Kady shrugs like it’s nothing, but Quentin knows how much it must be costing her to rely on the Library after everything she’s been through, after everything they failed to do to help Penny.

“Penny.” He says the name unthinkingly and Kady raises an eyebrow in question. “Uh.” Quentin shakes his head. “I don’t know why I said that. But, hey, uh. I never said how sorry I was. How sorry I am. About Penny.”

An odd look flickers across Kady’s face. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of intense, Coldwater?”

“Sorry, I—”

“Not that. This is more of your mind palace shit getting kicked up again—you said that to me before. It was kinda out of nowhere that time too. You still don’t remember, huh?”

Quentin feels eerily self-conscious; he knows it’s not his fault he doesn’t remember, but embarrassment creeps at the back of his throat, like realising after the fact that he’s just repeated the same story he’s told once already. “Sorry to bring up bad memories.” His eyes flit from Kady to the mossy window and back again.

“Nah, don’t be. I miss Penny like crazy, but I’m glad I stuck around. I got a lot of shit to do, you know?”

Quentin doesn’t know, not really, but he’s starting to think that he’d like to. “I think so,” is what he settles on, for now.

“So, you still wanna help out?”

He does. Over the next couple of weeks, Quentin scrubs the windows, sands and varnishes the floors. He picks out paint with Julia, scours flea markets with Kady for a bunch of chairs and other furniture, makes reasonably successful small talk with slimy Pete when he drops off interesting artefacts and bizarre magical instruments. Most days, Julia comes by with a rotating menu of sourdough baguettes from the deli across the street, and they eat in the tiny kitchen with Kady. Though they ask for Quentin’s opinion as though it’s actually worth hearing, for the most part, he listens to their ongoing debates about hedge politics. The grounds are fairly well-trodden by this stage, but the parameters shift back and forth as Kady and Julia slowly work out the issues at hand. From what he can gather, there are three main groups in New York; the top bitches like Marina who are more than happy with the status quo and want to consolidate what little power they have, a traditionalist set who think any programme that includes education is just an elitist sell-out, and then those who, like Kady and Julia, just want to learn cool shit without all the tedious power struggles.

Julia’s sat bolt upright, gesturing emphatically to make her point in a way that’s endearingly familiar to Quentin, who spent years going back and forth with her in exactly the same way. She wants to compromise, bring in as many people as possible, even if— _especially_ if they don’t all agree, while Kady, lips pursed in frustration, thinks they’ll never please everyone and shouldn’t try. For maybe the first time in his life, Quentin doesn’t try to weigh in. This isn’t his fight, but it’s a good one, it’s actually really fucking important, and he’s glad to have something, however small, to offer their operation. Slowly and without warning, Quentin feels like part of something again. Something that’s actually going to do some good in the world.

One day, he drops a bowl of hot soup in the kitchen and his fingers curve into a tut without him even realising, the fragments of ceramic arcing fluidly through the air like they can’t wait to be reunited, noodles slopping back into the bowl like they’d never left. Astonished, he drops it again. This time, the repair is conscious of itself. There’s a block, a disruption to his magic. It still flows, still fixes the bowl, but the parts need convincing to become whole again, and though they slot back together, it’s like they remember coming undone and always will.

Quentin gives himself a little shake, suddenly not hungry. He hasn’t thought about magic much since he got back, never taking Alice up on her offer to study with him. It seems odd, actually, given what he remembers of himself, but maybe his lack of interest has something to do with the fact that even a tiny mending spell has shot a bolt of abject fear straight through his chest.

Perhaps against his better judgement, Quentin tells Julia about it later—the magic part, that is, not the existential angst it’d launched. Julia grins and throws her arms around him, clearly believing this is a sign that Quentin too is on the mend. She’s so happy for him, and Quentin’s trying to keep his promise not to be the cause of any more of Julia’s troubled looks, so he tucks his worries away.

It quickly becomes clear that he should’ve listened to his instincts, because now she wants him to enroll at Brakebills again. Julia even contacts Fogg on his behalf, which leads to a big argument with door slamming (Julia) and tears (Quentin), and somehow, even though he doesn’t want to go, and even though he’s mad at Julia, he ends up on the re-enrollment list anyway. (“It’s easier to drop out at the last minute than it would be to suddenly change your mind and turn up,” Julia says, clearly hoping he’ll just go along with it. Which he probably will. Because what else is he gonna do?)

And, like. Quentin gets it. Julia’s building a whole new system for learning magic. She doesn’t want to hear that maybe magic isn’t good for him, that after all, wasn’t it magic that got them all into this mess in the first place? These thoughts roil fearfully in him, and Quentin doesn’t try any more spells.

*

“I’d do it again,” Eliot says in a low voice. “I don’t care how selfish it makes me. I don’t care if Q never looks at me again. I’d bring him back a thousand times over.” He lifts his chin, glaring at Laura in defiance, but all she’s doing is giving him a gentle nod.

“Of course. You love him. You’re not a monster for wanting Quentin to live.” Her words jolt at something deeply held in Eliot’s psyche and his chest expands in a shaky breath as he tries to stop the surge of raw magical energy cascading out of him—but it can’t be contained; he’s not supposed to even try, and it’s just a frozen pitcher of water, no big deal. Even a few weeks ago it would’ve been a thunderstorm, or the whole room up in flames. It doesn’t make it any less embarrassing, but it _is_ progress.

“I’m sorry,” Laura says quietly, and she looks it, too. “That was a very poor choice of phrase.”

“Actually, I think it was exactly the right choice.” Isn’t this what it always comes back to? Eliot didn’t need to be possessed by a monster to feel like one. Except, that’s ridiculous. He _doesn’t_ feel like one. Even though he killed Logan, and he killed Mike. That doesn’t make him—

And even if his dad thought he was a _pervert_ and his brothers called him a _freak_ —and the kids he used to be friends with would spit awful, ugly words at him—Eliot had always known they were wrong. 

Laura’s brow wrinkles. “Why do you say that?”

Ideally, he’d deliver his lines in an uncaring deadpan, but playing that old role is beyond him right now. “If I said it didn’t matter, would you leave it alone?” She would. Eliot knows it. It’s stupid, this game he insists on playing. He knows that too.

There’s that head tilt again.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, shaking his head in return. “Just… carry on.”

She does. “Is this about the monster? Or about you?”

“Me, obviously,” he says, offsetting the snap in his voice with an eye roll. “Sorry. It’s just so cliched, so mind-numbingly banal. Some queer kid alienated from his hometown and disowned by his family. Who even cares?”

“I care, Eliot. The upbringing you’ve described holds the ingredients for a great deal of shame. And you’ve carried that shame at your core for a long time now.”

“For this—” he gestures down at himself with a wide jerk of his hand— “for me to be like—this. It shouldn’t be enough to—it should take more than that.” Oh god, he’s going to cry, he can tell. Eliot’s cried more in the last year than all the years prior put together.

She regards him neutrally. “Eliot, what do you think trauma is?”

“Feels like a trick question, but okay.” He rubs at his chin. “Something awful. Horrific. Rape or, I dunno. War. Big stuff.”

“Yes, those are examples of what I’d call shock trauma. This might be a physical assault, or it could be a one-off event like a car accident. There’s another type of trauma—not smaller, just different. This is formative trauma, occurring during our early development, often when our adult caretakers fail to meet our needs.”

It’s not that he’s never thought about Laura’s own background, or what might have led her to a career in magical therapy. He has. Not that often, if he’s honest, but he has. Now, though, hearing the quietly possessive ‘our’ makes him realise that whatever it was that led Laura here, it’s something that, on some level, they share. It doesn’t quite make him look at Laura anew, especially while he’s listening to her, body holding tense, left bicep quivering with the strain. She’s explaining things that aren’t exactly entirely unknown to him, but that he’s never heard put into quite these words before. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to hear about—

“ —things like childhood bullying, emotional neglect, being implicitly or explicitly taught by adults and peers that who we are is in some way fundamentally wrong. This kind of repeated devaluing of our identity is often internalised as shame.”

A sickly rash of fear is spreading through Eliot, making him sweat through his shirt. He’s going to have to change his whole outfit now, for fuck’s sake. “I’m not ashamed of being queer. That’s ridiculous.” Hands claw into fists to stop their trembling.

Laura gives him one of her steady looks.

“I’m actually not? Maybe you’re right, I had some pretty consistent messages that being queer was all disgusting sin, hellfire and brimstone or whatever, but I never even believed it then, honestly. I just wanted _them_ to stop believing it. Or at least to leave me the fuck alone to be a filthy little fag in peace.” He smiles sadly. “That’s all I wanted.”

“I’m glad you didn’t believe those messages.”

Eliot’s smile twists into something else entirely. Staring dead ahead at the wall behind Laura, he says, “But I guess it still did a number on me anyway, huh?”

“It’d do a number on any child to have their identity repeatedly devalued and invalidated. And it’s very common to find this kind of split between what we believe and how we feel about it. Logically, you’ve been able to dismiss the homophobia of your family and peers, but that shame is still there emotionally, and needs addressing.”

“It just doesn’t seem like enough. To be this fucked up by.”

“Oh, believe me, it’s plenty. Repeated assaults on our identity threaten our emotional stability, our capacity to trust other people with the most vulnerable parts of ourselves. It affects our ability to form healthy connections and relationships.”

“Well, that sounds…” Eliot tips his head back with a laugh, a slight and sunken thing, before meeting her eyes, gaze level. “Pretty much bang on, I’d say.”

“In addition—”

“Oh, goody, there’s more.”

Lips twitching, she continues. “Indeed. I was going to say that a fair number of things you’ve told me are actually pretty extreme forms of shock trauma. And you’ve got a tendency to minimise both types of trauma. Not to harp on it, but this is all classic fodder for magical surges.”

“Great,” Eliot says, rolling the R theatrically. “Just great.”

*

When the dreams return, Quentin’s not ready for them. It’s all been going pretty well, or, like, better than when he was staring at the walls and sneaking around Kady’s apartment avoiding everyone. So, you know, relative, but better. Which is how he should’ve known he was about to fall flat on his face. Right before his brain breaks, it always tricks him into thinking things might actually turn out okay. It’s inevitable, he ought to set a clock by it. He used to think there were two Quentins: one broken and the other—well, he’s never really been healthy. The best he seems to be able to hope for is mostly functioning, maybe, sort of. When he’s broken Quentin, he can’t summon the possibility that life has or will ever be good again. But when he’s mostly-functional-ish Quentin, the darkness he was sunk in feels so impossibly remote, so utterly inconceivable—until it devours him again. Right now, he doesn’t feel like either of those Quentins. Life isn’t good, and the darkness is always waiting. Like right now, when everything he’s been grasping at over the last few weeks has shattered, and there’s no magic powerful enough to ever bring the pieces back together.

This time, the room is dark and quiet and the floor is cold and hard, and the monster is holding Quentin down, down, down. “You’ll never get out of here,” it says with Eliot’s mouth, and Quentin shakes his head.

“Stop it.”

The monster giggles; it sounds nothing like Eliot. Quentin’s teeth grit, the monster grinds Eliot’s hips into his. “But it’s true,” the childlike voice hisses in Quentin’s ear, and how could he ever have mistaken the monster for Eliot? “You’ve spent your whole life here in one form or another. Trapped in a grey room that you could walk out of whenever you like, but instead you choose to stay, here, in a prison of your own making.”

“That’s not—” it is, it’s everything Quentin’s ever feared— “Shut up, shut the fuck up. You have no idea.” The monster licks Eliot’s lips before it presses them against Quentin’s. It doesn’t seem to mind Quentin’s lack of response, kissing him for a long time before pulling back and pushing the heel of Eliot’s hand under Quentin’s chin, forcing his head back like Eliot used to—

Fuck. Quentin’s eyes jam shut at the monster’s other hand slides over his chest, cool fingers slipping beneath his shirt. No, fuck, no.

“Quentin?”

His eyes flutter open, the monster’s grip tightens around his jaw. Quentin squirms. “Don’t—” he says faintly.

Eliot lets go immediately, cupping Quentin’s cheek gently. “What’s wrong, baby?” Eliot says, but fuck, that’s not—

“No no no, it’s not you. Stop it.”

“Shit, Q. Is everything okay?”

“Stop it,” Quentin says, trying to kick his legs free, but it’s no use.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” The monster’s cold-eyed stare drills into him and Eliot’s long fingers stroke gentle patterns over his cheek; the dissonance is petrifying. “I know all the ordinary little secrets your precious _Eliot_ carries. He fills himself up on things that can’t ever satisfy and denies himself the things he truly wants. Just like you do.”

“Get the fuck off me.” Quentin’s trying to shout but the words come out barely a whisper, almost a sob. “I mean it—”

“—Hey, hey, I’m sorry, baby. I’m here.” Eliot shifts over so they’re lying next to one another and props himself up on one elbow, curls falling wild over his eyes, dark and unreadable. He grins, sly. “You wanna tell Daddy all about it?”

Quentin blushes; he doesn’t know how to respond to this game of Eliot’s, doesn’t know how serious he’s being—does he really want Quentin to, to—what? And, it’s embarrassing, and this doesn’t seem—it’s, is this really an appropriate time?

“I just—I got confused for a second?”

“Don’t worry, Q, I’ve got you.” Eliot grin turns wicked, he drags his palms over Quentin’s naked chest, and when had that happened? In fact, where have all their clothes—

—Quentin’s head falls back against the pillow, Eliot slips beneath the covers and oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—

Breathless, Quentin lifts up onto his elbows as Eliot emerges. “So,” Eliot asks with a fond smirk. “Did I blow your mind?”

“You’re terrible,” Quentin says, laughing, and oh god, Eliot’s kissing him; he can taste himself, salt-bitter on Eliot’s tongue.

When Eliot pulls away, the monster gazes out through his eyes and Quentin thinks he’s going to be sick.

*

Eliot twists in his seat. “I just don’t want him to see me like that.”

“Okay. You’ve said that a few times. You don’t want Quentin to see you like what exactly?”

“Like—” Eliot shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Really don’t know, or deflecting?”

Eliot laughs, rolling his sleeves up and accepting the glass of water she offers him. Laura knows his bullshit very fucking well by now. “Deflecting, obviously.”

“Mm,” she says, with a small smile. The light is catching the honey-gold highlights in her hair. It’s a new look. It suits her. Eliot sips his water, settles back. “If you’ll allow me to hazard a guess, I’d say that you don’t want Quentin to see you losing control—magically and/or emotionally—and that’s why you’re avoiding him.

No shit. “Well, when you put it like that it sounds terribly prosaic.”

“Oh, on the contrary.” She takes a long drink of water, mouth pursing thoughtfully. “There’s nothing prosaic about the human desire to project a coherent version of ourselves to others—it’s a fascinating subject, lots of interesting texts on the matter.”

“Well, I’m not much of a reader,” Eliot says, suddenly restless. “And I don’t care about being coherent or whatever, it’s just embarrassing needing remedial classes in basic spellwork.”

“Hmm. Are you sure your magic is the only thing you’re embarrassed about?”

Eliot grimaces. “I don’t want him to see it, okay? I feel like—like he’s gonna just _know_ everything I’m feeling. Being around him right now, it’s just, it’s too much. Especially when he’s not really… there.”

“Is this why you worked so hard to bring Quentin back, so you could avoid him?” An avalanche of books crashes from the shelves behind Laura. She looks at him evenly, not the slightest hint of apology in her expression.

“Of course not,” Eliot hisses. “But he doesn’t want to see me, and whenever I’m around him I feel like I’m gonna bring the fucking ceiling down, so forgive me for not wanting to put either of us through that.” Jesus fucking _Christ_. As if having emotions in the first place isn’t heinous enough without them bursting out of him in the form of wacky thunderstorms and exploding chandeliers.

“We’ve discussed your tendency to avoid your feelings at great length and—”

“I’m not avoiding my fucking feelings, I’m avoiding Quentin. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

*

Julia drops her purse on the counter. “I thought you were doing better?” She’s clearly only come by to check on Quentin, who’s failed to show at Hedge Quarters, as they’re calling it for now. She sounds so disappointed, and honestly, so is Quentin. He’d thought he was doing better, too. At least he’s out of bed this time and has even managed a quick shower in anticipation of Julia’s arrival. The last thing Quentin wants is for her to think he’s sliding downhill again. “Sorry,” she says, sitting next to him. “That came out wrong. I’m just worried about you.”

A little choked up, Quentin admits that he’s worried too.

“Have you been having weird dreams again? About the bell?” Julia asks tentatively, as though she’s not sure whether to bring it up.

“No—I. Well, yeah. But also. The monster.” He looks at Julia, feeling utterly pathetic. “And.” He stares down at the floor. “Eliot.” He gives her the briefest outline he can manage, avoiding the weird—the sex stuff. What little grasp he’s got over his emotions disintegrates as he describes the unnerving slippage in his brain between Eliot and the monster.

Julia considers him for a moment. “You know I have PTSD, right?”

Cringing, Quentin remembers that other people have actual problems, unlike his whining and laying about, his perennial inability to just get a real fucking job and get on with life like everyone else. “Yeah, shit, of course, Jules, I didn’t mean—”

She cuts him off, placing a hand on his knee to soften her words. “Whoa, Q. I’m gonna stop the pity train there, all right? I think _you_ have PTSD. Some like, unprocessed shit going on. A psychotic monster tortured you for months. You came back from the dead. I could go on, but like, even just accounting for the most recent events—well. That’s some seriously messed up shit.” She looks at him sternly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeats in a small voice, not really believing her, but finding that, as has so often happened, Julia manages to stir at the part of him that wants to try. The voice of another old psychologist, one of the relatively less awful ones, comes from nowhere: _what would happen if you believed her?_

“It’s been months now, and things have been pretty rocky. Have you thought again about seeing someone?”

“I’m not seeing a therapist.”

“What about a magician, though?”

“That’s a thing?”

“Yeah, there aren’t a ton of them, but I know someone who knows someone.”

“Huh. I can’t believe I never thought about that before.” He glances up at Julia. “I mean, when you think about it? How fucked up are, like, all magicians? We could all really do with a shit ton of actual mental health care.” He gives a little huff of laughter, thinking of Lipson about to go over the ledge, the Dean boozed up to his eyeballs, and god, the state of Alice’s parents—it’s not funny, not at all, and it’s not exactly the company he’d prefer to keep, but at least he’s not alone in his misery, right?

Julia offers to dig around, promising she’ll be discreet about it. Quentin relents, unable to come up with a good reason not to.

*

This time, when Eliot drinks the pale orange potion, he knows what to expect. He settles back, eye mask in place. After giving him a few minutes to acclimatize to the effects of the therapy spell, Laura begins their conversation with a question agreed prior to the session: “Why are you avoiding Quentin?”

“That’s a big question,” Eliot responds, resistant, the potion still slipping through his veins.

“Take your time.”

It doesn’t take long for the answer to burst out of him like one of his magical surges. “I want to see him so fucking badly.” He can imagine Laura’s slight frown here, the crease between her eyebrows.

“You’re avoiding Quentin because you want to see him?”

“Exactly. It’s what I do, right?” The effects of the potion begin to manifest. A soft weight sinks into his shoulders, strong and grounding. “Avoid the things I want most.” Eliot shudders.

“Why do you avoid the things you want the most?”

A slow hand slips over his jaw. Eliot leans into it, startled. It pushes into his hair, cradling the back of his neck. It’s the kind of care Eliot likes to give others, the kind he’s always craved but has rarely allowed himself to have. Not in this life. “Oh god,” he breathes, his own hands clawing at the arms of the chair. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t get what I want. I get in my own way. I fuck things up.”

“Why do you believe that you shouldn’t get what you want?”

Stomach lurching, Eliot leans forward. He slides the eye mask off; it drops to the floor. Nausea crawls in his throat. The cooling touch soothes over his lower back. When he speaks, it feels like throwing up. Gentle fingertips trace circles between his shoulder blades as he lets it go. “Because bad things happen. Because I want bad things. Because... I’m too much, I’m—there’s something _wrong_ with me. My family knew it. Logan Kinnear knew it. And I _killed him_.” Manic laughter streams from his throat; there’s violence inside Eliot, there always has been. “Do you know what the best part is? I don’t feel bad about killing him. I know he was just a kid, that he would’ve grown up, maybe he would’ve changed, turned out okay. I mean, I doubt it, but I hear it can happen. But I don’t care. He made my life hell. He made me _hate_ myself back then, and I haven’t _stopped_ hating myself since. It’s not even like the bullying ended when he died—he was the worst one, though, the worst person in my life. I hated him even more than I hated my dad. But _I_ became the worst person in my life the day I killed him. So why don’t I feel bad? There’s obviously something wrong with me. I’m broken, I’m so fucking broken. I _wanted_ him to die, I thought about it _all the time_. Bad things happen when I get what I want. I wanted a boyfriend and I ended up with the Beast. Penny nearly died. Quentin could’ve—” Eliot breaks into a humiliating sob. “ _Shit_. I shouldn’t have taken this stupid potion again. I don’t know where all this is coming from.”

Like a glimmer of light between the sway of branches in the evening breeze, Laura says, “It’s coming from inside you. From your childhood where you were failed by the adults who were supposed to take care of you. From the trauma of being bullied, repeatedly told that who you are is wrong. I’m not surprised you feel broken, Eliot. But you’re not. You’re in pain, you’ve been traumatised over and over. You want to be loved very badly,” she says gently. “And you deserve it, Eliot. You deserved it then, when you were a kid, and you deserve it now. Has anyone ever told you that?”

He hides his grimace in his hands.

“I’m betting that made you feel really uncomfortable, huh?”

“Yeah,” he admits, still bent double in the chair, pushing his hair, damp with sweat, back from his face. Eliot feels sick. He’s not afraid. “It did. God, I don’t want you to know that. I don’t want to tell you any of this. I don’t want to tell you that being loved is all I’ve ever really wanted. I’m not saying nobody has ever—I’ve got Margo, obviously. But—shit. All I’ve ever wanted is to be loved,” he says again, with quiet resignation. “By a _man_ , okay? _Fuck_. I like the way men look.” He sits up sharp, glares at Laura, as resentful of her as he is horribly grateful that she sits there week after week and lets him take out all of his petty rages on her. “I’m not ashamed of that. I like their bodies. Hands, hips, dicks, thighs—Jesus Christ, their fucking _thighs_. I like the hair on their bodies, I like how they smell. I like looking at men, and I like the way they look at me.” _All the places he could’ve touched Quentin, if he’d let himself: the crook of his elbow, the sharp rise of his hips, thumb slipping over the slant of his neck to fit behind his ear. He could’ve looked at Quentin all day long—and Quentin would’ve looked back. All that hunger gone to waste._ “But that’s the easy part. How men look, the way they look at me. Being loved is different. I’m embarrassed that I even want it, ashamed of having all this _bullshit_ in the way of ever getting it. Ashamed of who I am, ashamed of being ashamed. God, it never stops.”

As it’s all pulled out of him, Eliot breathes through the snapping and wrenching in his hips, his calves; body juddering with the aftershocks, soft hands soothing in their wake. This happened last time he drank the potion, like literal growing pains or the ache of unfurling a clenched fist.

“No,” Laura agrees. “Trauma doesn’t stop. We learn to live with it though.”

“It fucking _sucks_.”

“It does,” she agrees. “It sucks a lot. I think that’s important to remember.”

“That trauma sucks?”

“Yes. You deserve and deserved to be loved. You didn’t deserve the bullying and the abuse. It wasn’t fair. You’re always going to live with the consequences of that trauma. And it really, really sucks.”

“Jesus.”

“One more thing. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t feel bad for killing one of your abusers, even if he was a child, even if he might’ve grown into someone decent. But I don’t believe that’s true. I can see that you feel incredibly guilty about what happened. And I’ll remind you again that what happened was out of your control. You had no way of knowing that your thoughts would one day have the power to shape reality.”

 _You didn’t know. It’s not your fault._ Eliot sucks in a harsh breath, a light palm slips over his sternum. He breathes out. “I killed Mike,” he says roughly. “I know it was Martin stuffed inside him, but it was Mike I killed. He didn’t deserve that.”

“Neither did you.”

 _Neither did you_.

“All of this… it’s kind of you to say, but I don’t know if any of it’s true.”

_It is._

“Sit with it a while. I don’t want to tell you that I know better than you about your own feelings—I’m only telling you about what I’ve observed during our sessions, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll think about it.” He’s already thinking about it; the potion has awakened a deep flood of empathy within him, an empathy he’s wholly unused to directing toward himself. It feels really fucking weird. “I’ve thought about it,” he says, head shaking in disbelief, “I didn’t deserve what happened to me. With Logan, or with Mike.”

“Good,” Laura says. “That’s good, Eliot.”

The nausea finally subsides. A tingling sensation flares over his shoulders, making its way to his hips, but there’s an odd sort of equilibrium settling in too, like a heavy blanket draping over him, calming his nerves, relaxing his muscles. He feels… safe. It’s not a familiar feeling, but he recognises it instantly, flooding and dampening the pitch of his fear. 

Eventually, Laura says, “I’m going to bring you back to the focal point we agreed on for this session, if that’s okay?”

Quentin, it’s always Quentin. “Yeah, that’s fine.” A fresh spike of anxiety in his chest; a deep pressure quieting the pain. 

“Okay. You’re avoiding Quentin because you want to see him so badly. This is connected very deeply to the trauma you experienced growing up. You don’t believe that you deserve to see Quentin, to have a friendship or any kind of relationship with him again.”

“Thanks for the recap,” Eliot says dryly. “I hated it.”

Laura folds her hands in her lap, waits.

“Ugh, okay. Look. I know that the way I turned him down was cruel, but it wasn’t unforgivable. I know it doesn’t define me, and that it wouldn’t have taken on anywhere near as much weight if not for the respective monster possession and sacrificial death. I know all that, okay?”

“Good. You’ve clearly been paying attention these last few months.”

“I have. Really. It’s just. I don’t know. A lot of things at once, I guess. I’m worried he’ll take one look at me and know everything I’m feeling.”

“Tell me a little more about this. Would it really be so bad if Quentin knew that you’re in love with him?”

A knot Eliot would never have untangled without the fuck-awful potion crawling inside him slips free at last. “I guess not telling him keeps the possibility alive as much as it ensures it’ll never come to anything.” Eliot groans. “Oh god, I’m the _worst_.”

“To be clear, I’m not suggesting you tell Quentin. I’m more interested in how you feel about it. After all, it seems likely that you _will_ run into him again, given that you share a social circle. What happens then?

“I—god. I don’t know.”

“Do you want to play it out?”

“Not really? So, yeah, I guess? Let’s do it.”

“All right. You see Quentin in the apartment and your magic flares up. How do you feel?”

Everything’s right there at his fingertips. He _knows_. And he can just _say_ it. “Fucking mortified.” Eliot shudders, legs aching in a burst of dull pinpricks. “Helpless. Out of control. Exposed.”

“And what will you do to manage those feelings?”

“I don’t—fuck. I do, I know. I explain what’s happening. I—ha. I tell Quentin, hey, sorry for caving the walls in, it’s just a manifestation of all the gross feelings I have for you and they’re all leaking out of me because I miss you _so fucking much._ ” Eliot stops, takes a breath, sighs it out. “Nope, that’s not it. I say, shit, that’s embarrassing. I’ve been having some issues with my magic lately, I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

“That’s better. What next?”

“I… try and have a normal conversation with him? Or whatever passes for normal with us. That’d be nice, actually. Really fucking nice.” The lovely curve of Quentin’s smile, his arms around Eliot, pulling him closer. Yeah, not likely. “A normal conversation. Like, whatever he’s been up to with Julia, and I could tell him that I’m finally starting to get my shit together in Fillory. Not bullshit small talk, I don’t mean that. But just, everyday crap. Like, you know. Friends.”

“Obviously you want to respect Quentin’s boundaries—and it’s possible that you’re right; he might not want to speak to you again. But it’s also possible that he would be open to rebuilding a friendship with you. I think you owe it to yourself to find out.”

“Maybe,” he allows. “Probably.” And then, finally, “Will you help me?” 

*

In the weeks that follow, Quentin digs and crawls and wrestles his way back from the brink, clinging to the meagre hope that if he just keeps going, he’ll eventually reach some kind of stability. At first, even on the good days, Quentin wakes up wishing he hadn’t. He gets up when he can, doesn’t when he can’t. Hates himself either way. Most mornings, off and on, he bursts into uncontrollable fits of tears and can’t find a reason why. His hands shake as he makes coffee, and even more as he gulps it down. He eats breakfast with Julia, helps out at Hedge Quarters, and he’s scrabbling, always scrabbling his way out of the dark. By lunchtime, he’s exhausted, and by the end of the day he’s just about clawed his way to feeling marginally less shitty, and then he has to go to bed and start the whole thing over again. And again, and—Quentin’s not supposed to think too far ahead.

After a series of strained conversations with Julia, he starts taking his meds again. During a couple of these conversations, Julia tentatively asks if he wants to know more about what happened the day he died and how they brought him back, and it’s like his body just stops; he can’t see or hear or think or breathe. She stops asking. He misses the therapist appointment Julia sets up for him and doesn’t reschedule. The ache won’t go away. The part of Quentin that doesn’t understand what he’s doing here again, why they brought him back if all he’s going to be is this useless half a person stagnating in Kady’s apartment. “Maybe you need your own place?” Julia suggests, and it sounds appealing in a way, somewhere that’s just his, but he knows he’ll only rot away in there, and he says so.

“Well, why don’t we live together again?”

“Because, Jules, I can’t afford to move into your apartment.”

“I’ve actually been wanting to move. I don’t have the best memories of my apartment, you know? So, new memories. Maybe that’d be good for you, too. Come on, think of the TV we can catch up on…” Quentin’s lips twitch into a smile despite himself. Julia sure knows how to hook him. And it does sound like the sort of thing he might’ve once found fun. Could maybe again. But—

“Don’t worry about the money. Seriously.”

“I can’t.”

“ _Please_ , Q. Just let me do this.”

And so, Quentin and Julia move in together. From there, things do start to get better. For one, Julia puts an immediate action plan in place. She meets him at the kitchen table for breakfast most days, drags him along to morning yoga classes and evening comedy shows, curates a steady diet of podcasts and kindly but firmly bans him from listening to “that mopey Radiohead shit,” despite Quentin’s protestations that, “Some of it’s, um, actually weirdly uplifting. No, honest, Jules, it’s like, Thom Yorke is able to articulate such a clear-eyed depiction of the utter despair of modern life that it’s actually very affirming? Almost calming, in a way, you know?”

Julia did not know, and she didn’t care to know. Upbeat music only, she dictates, prescribing him a Spotify playlist the next day and reawakening Quentin’s love of terrible pop music. They marathon _The X-Files_ , lusting after Scully and rolling their eyes at Mulder, until around the fifth season when Julia declares she can’t do it anymore, and on goes _Battlestar Galactica_ instead, even though—or maybe especially because Quentin’s seen it three or four times already. He geeks out about their convoluted mythologies, dredging up feminist and queer theories from his undergrad and applying them with haphazard enthusiasm while Julia groans and joins in despite herself. Kady comes over a lot, rolling her eyes at “that nerd shit,” and Quentin kindly refrains from pointing out that Kady is equally as obsessed with Scully and Starbuck as he and Julia are, if not more so. He lets their conversations about hedge politics and magical pedagogy wash over him, as glad to be peripherally included as he is to not have to participate.

It works, to a degree. In many ways, the stability Quentin longs for is actually in his grasp. Perhaps it’s even arrived. He’s never thought of himself as the sort of person to do god-awful things like yoga or listen to calming rain sounds in his new noise-cancelling headphones (which are actually amazing and Quentin doesn’t know how he lived without them), but here he is, actually doing that shit unironically, even as he remains vehemently opposed to the hippie undertones and the capitalist ethos of _self-care_ and _wellbeing_ and isn’t entirely certain how this has happened to him. Desperation, he thinks grimly. That’s what it comes down to. At a certain point, you have to be willing to try anything, and it’s here that Quentin finds himself. All around him, people are getting on with their lives. Julia and Kady are thriving. He catches snippets about their other friends too, hears that Alice is making waves at the Library, that Fillory is making inroads to some kind of democracy.

Quentin wants to be a person again, if he can. He can’t quite envisage himself capable of such a task, but nonetheless, twice a week he drags air deep into his belly and hauls his reluctant body into warriors and downward dogs. He laughs at dumb improv routines until his cheeks hurt and distracts from his own dark thoughts by catching up on all the other dark shit going on in the world; from all the true crime sensations he’s missed out on, to an informative podcast series about the impending environmental crisis. Turns out it’s not just Quentin’s brain that’s fucked. It’s the entire goddamn planet. It’s not as comforting as he expects it to be. He and Julia eat their weight in burritos and choreograph utterly deranged dance routines along to her terrible (amazing) playlists, and somewhere along the way, Quentin finds that he’s not exactly looking forward to Brakebills, the start date of which is looming ever closer, but he’s not exactly dreading it, either. The dreams still lurk in his unconscious, and if he wakes up with cold sweats in the night—well. He’s used to it.

This is his life. This is what they’ve brought him back for. Not the best his life has ever been, admittedly, but it’s… it could be worse. Maybe someday it’ll even be better. Either way, this is it.

*

On the way to Julia’s morning yoga class (which Quentin can’t quite admit is _his_ yoga class now, too), she realises there’s something she forgot to pick up from Kady’s, and so, they make their way across town to the penthouse. It’s not a big deal, honestly, but the detour and change of plans makes Quentin feel itchy, irritated. Julia bounds straight upstairs, and Quentin’s glad to be inside where it’s quiet, but he’s not at all expecting to see—

“Eliot. Um, hey.” Quentin stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room, letting his gym bag drop to the floor.

“Quentin!” Eliot lights up, looking pleased, though curiously perhaps just as startled as Quentin. “It’s good to see you." He begins to walk over, then seems to second guess himself, standing behind the couch and leaving more distance between them than Quentin remembers there ever being. “You look—good.”

Rolling his eyes, Quentin becomes conscious of his baggy grey shirt and dumb shorts in a way he hadn’t been a second ago. “Okay, come on. I look like shit—you can say it.” It’s true, he does. Quentin suddenly and inexplicably wishes he’d shaved this morning, or like, dragged a comb through his hair at the very least. Another nightmare had woken him around four in the morning and he’d lain awake in stillness, swallowed by the dark until his alarm had gone off at seven. So yeah, he looks like shit. Self-consciously, he reaches to tie his hair back, glad to have something to do with his hands besides flop them uselessly by his sides.

“You never could,” Eliot says lightly. “But—is everything okay?”

Wow, Quentin must look even worse than he’d thought. “Ah,” he says, stalling. “Yeah, things are—I guess you’ve caught me on a bad day.” He refrains from mentioning that even his good days are bad ones, and remembers just in time to add, “Um, you?”

Eliot’s eyes narrow slightly, and Quentin takes a moment to look at him properly. He’s wearing Fillorian clothes, but not the brightly extravagant ensembles he’d worn as king. The dark grey and black tunic is reminiscent of his Earth clothes, and his hair is longer than Quentin’s ever seen it, tied back at the nape of his neck.

Airily, Eliot says, “Oh, you know, things in Fillory are—” He stops and takes a visibly deep breath. “Okay, fuck that. I’m gonna say something, okay?”

“Uh—”

“It’s just that—I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

“No,” Quentin says quickly. “Me neither.”

“I want us to be—I want to be friends.”

“Me too.”

“Good,” Eliot says decisively. Then, with a determined expression on his face, he walks around to the other side of the couch, closing the gap between them. “Would it be okay if—can I hug you?” he asks quietly, now looking almost as if he’s afraid of what Quentin might say. “I’d really like— I really want to hug you.”

“I—yeah.” Quentin’s breath picks up. “Of course. You don’t—you don’t need to ask me that.”

“I do,” Eliot says, “I really do,” and then he’s slowly circling Quentin’s waist, a warm hand briefly grazing the back of his neck. Quentin inhales sharply; he hasn’t had physical contact with anyone but Julia in months. And now, there’s Eliot, unexpectedly wrapped around him in the middle of Kady’s apartment on a Wednesday morning. The spark of it rakes through him and Quentin’s body comes alive to the thousands of times Eliot has draped an easy arm around him, touched his knee or his shoulder in passing, the million times they’ve leapt into each other’s arms, always pulling each other closer.

It feels really fucking good.

Quentin burrows his head into Eliot’s chest, mumbles into his collar, “Yeah, things have maybe been slightly less than okay?”

“You don’t say,” Eliot replies gently. Nothing has felt quite like this since he came back. Nothing at all. He doesn’t want to, but eventually the time comes for Quentin to let him go. As he pulls back, Eliot’s hand trails over his shoulder, thumb resting on his collarbone for a moment. It sets his mind roiling, and he’s not sure why. Quentin swallows, tilting up to look at Eliot. His eyes are bright and kind, his expression just fucking _radiating_ warmth and affection, and shit, how the fuck did his dumb brain ever confuse Eliot with the monster?

Dreams are fucked up, he decides. That’s all it is. Of course. It feels momentous to have identified this rather basic fact—dreams are weird, the monster is long gone, and Eliot is—right here. Quentin opens his mouth without quite knowing what he might say, but Eliot gets there first. “Listen, I have to go right now, I only dropped by to pick up this talisman thing for Margo, she’ll kick my ass if I’m not back soon for—there’s this ritual we’re doing, it’s dull as bricks, but never mind that—”

Margo. How had Quentin forgotten about her? Or, not _forgotten_ , rather, he’s simply failed to think about her, to think about _anyone,_ recently, and—

“How is she?”

“Margo? She’s great. Currently on a rampage against Loria’s bullshit contribution to the latest treaty we’re trying to draw up, but Fen’s doing a pretty good job of reining her in…” He explains a bit about the treaty, designed to enrich social relations between Fillory and Loria, but naturally achieving the complete opposite of that goal, and as Eliot talks, Quentin feels his world burst open, its parameters realigning to encompass Margo and Eliot, two people he suddenly misses fiercely.

Before Eliot’s finished speaking, Quentin blurts out, “Hey, so, are you free? Sometime, like, I don’t know, tomorrow? Or, that’s probably too soon. Another time. You could tell me, you know. About everything.” A slow smile lights up Eliot’s face and he agrees immediately, tilting his head to gaze warmly down at Quentin, a flicker of unfettered delight playing across his face that makes Quentin very glad he asked.

“Tomorrow’s perfect,” Eliot says, the delight giving way to something like disbelief. Quentin looks at Eliot, really looks. His eyes are bright and kind and— _sad._ Eliot looks so fucking happy right now and he looks so fucking sad. The kind of sadness that can’t be swept away with a smile. Quentin doesn’t know what to do. Probably there’s nothing he can do. He thinks he understands, though. The cold drag in his stomach, the one that makes him want to lie down and never get back up. The way his all-encompassing sadness had been able to take Julia’s hand and walk out with her into the world again. The way he keeps wanting to die and keeps on not dying.

He wants to touch Eliot, in a way that Quentin hasn’t wanted to touch anything or anyone in so long. He wants to reach out but doesn’t know how. It’s _Eliot._ But. Heart slamming in his chest. There’s something in the way. He doesn’t know what. The monster, maybe? But maybe more than that…

 _The monster_. It comes back to Quentin in torn-up fragments like the moments between heartbeats. The woods. Eliot’s body, in the woods, the monster inside him. Eliot’s stomach ripped open, the monster ripped out of him. Blood, there had been so much blood.

Inside Quentin’s body, something is happening. He’s spent months digging himself out of the same grave he’s always digging for himself. And now, something is whirring and clicking away; a mechanical heart brought to life by the right touch. Something’s _happening_. Something with weight to it, solid and sure. Something is _shifting_ inside him, finally, like soap cutting through sticky-dark layers of grime and grease.

Quentin looks at Eliot, really looks; struck anew by the lovely curve of his mouth and the scruff of his beard, and now—on this dreary Wednesday morning when he looks like absolute shit and is wearing his rattiest t-shirt with a hole in the armpit—for the first time since he came back, Quentin has something to look forward to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a short section where Quentin dreams about the monster, and some parts are deliberately ambiguous about whether Eliot is actually Eliot, or whether it's the monster morphing into/pretending to be Eliot. There's some non-graphic sexual content in this part. If you want to skip, stop @ 'When the dreams return, Quentin’s not ready for them.' and start reading again @ 'Eliot twists in his seat'


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Their knees graze. And Quentin—wants. What he wants remains unclear, the blurred shape of his desire trapped behind glass. For now, he’s content to let the surreal certainty of newly awakened wanting course through him in a way he couldn’t have anticipated yesterday, or even that same morning. But, wait. Was it only Thursday that Eliot had come over for the first time? The world tilts, and Quentin thinks maybe the wine wasn’t such a great idea. Eliot’s here, and Quentin’s insides struggle to accommodate the rush of emotion and anticipation he’s brought with him. He leans forward again, as though maybe—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to finally getting to this chapter!! I hope you enjoy it, and thanks as always to hoko_onchi and Rubick for betaing.

Quentin’s been jittering around the apartment all morning, walking into rooms and forgetting why he’s there, opening cupboards and staring into them, getting underfoot and generally annoying the shit out of Kady, who eventually snaps at him— “Quit fucking around, and go get ready for your _date_.”

“It’s not a _date_ ,” Quentin protests, because it isn’t.

Kady gives him a long look. “Sure,” she says at last, lip curling into a somewhat friendlier version of her usual sneer. “Knock back a fucking chamomile or some shit, will you? You’re even more of a walking anxiety attack than usual.”

“You don’t even live here,” Quentin mutters under his breath as she leaves his apartment, finally. He’s been waiting to brew his tea, not wanting Kady to see that he’s actually following her glib advice, because although she’s been strangely kinder to him post-resurrection, she’s still Kady, and would therefore definitely have made fun of him.

He settles at the kitchen table and lets out a long, slow breath. For the first time in—Quentin can’t remember, to be honest—he woke up with a faint buzz of excitement in his chest; he’s surprised by the force of it, surprised that he’s even capable of having such intense feelings that aren’t bad ones.

Inevitably, his excitement trips over into nerves. He doesn’t know what to expect from Eliot, or how the day might unfold. They didn’t even make any actual plans. Quentin doesn’t think he and Eliot have _ever_ made plans—catch a movie, grab dinner, swing by for coffee—nope, instead it’d been Beasts and quests and monsters and fucked up battles to save magical kingdoms. And all of magic itself, but that hadn’t exactly—something twitches in Quentin’s brain and he shuts down that line of thinking.

Quentin hasn’t seen Eliot, not really, in such a long time. Nothing substantial since Quentin came back just over eight months ago, and before that— Yeah. It’s been a long time. He can’t wait, but also, what if it doesn’t go well? Quentin hasn’t exactly been warm and welcoming the last few times he’s seen Eliot in passing. But then there’s the way Eliot looked at him, only yesterday, so immensely glad to see him and god, he’d forgotten what it feels like to be looked at by Eliot, the deep warmth and flare of intensity in his eyes when they fixed on Quentin like there was nothing else in the whole world he’d rather be seeing.

He inhales a frantic breath, then cringes remembering what a fucking weirdo he’s been lately, hobbling around in the kitchen at Kady’s that night and scaring Eliot off—he hadn’t wanted to look at Quentin then, had bolted instantly. What if yesterday was a fluke? Quentin has a history of misreading things: social cues, body language, facial expressions. What if Eliot was just being polite when he agreed to come over? It’s not like Eliot to be polite about something like that, he reasons, trying to retain the sharp-shift of his insides beneath the slant of Eliot’s gaze—but. What if Quentin misread Eliot’s face entirely? What if he and Eliot no longer—what if their friendship has caved in under the weight of everything that’s happened to them? Eliot’s probably moved on. It happens all the time. Maybe the former fucking king of Fillory doesn’t have room in his life for some nerdy old grad school friend. _But we were so much more—_

His fingers tighten around the mug of tea, ceramic still faintly warm against his palm, liquid inside going cold. Maybe that’s what this is—Eliot is coming by to catch up with an old friend whose life has slipped out of sync with his—polite curiosity, and nothing more.

When Quentin opens the door, it’s immediately clear that this could never be the case. Eliot’s smile is achingly soft and a little tentative, and Quentin’s swirl of apprehension dissolves; he’s smiling too, giddy with it, magnetised and moving towards Eliot before he can talk himself out of it, and Eliot’s closing the gap, sweeping him close and pressing one of those irreverent kisses to the top of his head. Quentin leans into Eliot’s chest, almost overcome by the solidity and warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne and the way Eliot’s body wraps so tightly around him, how right it feels to be in his arms again.

A sickening flash of the last time he was this close to Eliot strikes him clean in the gut. No, the last time he’d been this close to the body that was no longer occupied by Eliot. Quentin had been both horribly grateful and permanently nauseated to find that beneath the monster’s signature fragrance of days-old blood, stale tequila and acid-sour sweat, there was an essential Eliot-ness that not even the power of a god-monster could erase. The monster he’d crushed to his chest, wrapped his entire body around in sleep—and all because it happened to look like his friend, the friend he’d thought was dead but who isn’t dead, the friend who’s here and is holding him so perfectly. The monster had sometimes smelled like Eliot, but Eliot doesn’t smell anything like the monster. The monster had never felt anything like Eliot. It’d barely felt human—because it wasn't human. 

Eliot feels like Eliot. He knows this because it’s obvious, and because from the first time Eliot touched him, he’d set something in motion within Quentin, something that had never ceased and which was now gaining new rhythm and speed. 

“Eliot—” Quentin looks up at him, oddly breathless. “ _El_ , it’s really good to—”

Eliot’s smile cracks open and his hands trace a shiver over Quentin’s shoulders as they separate. “I know, Q. God, it’s so fucking good to see you.”

They look at each other for an intense moment, Quentin not knowing how to proceed.

“So, listen,” Eliot says. “I want to apologise.”

“What for?” Quentin can’t imagine what he might possibly want to apologise for, but Eliot just laughs, a little distractedly like it’s obvious, and smooths his long hair back from his face.

“Oh, Q. Where to begin?” There’s that laugh again, hoarse and uneasy. “It might be a series of apologies, actually. Right now, let’s start with the last couple of times we’ve seen each other and I’ve kinda run out on you. I’ve had some—stuff. Going on. I had to get some, uh, things under control. That sounds like an excuse, I know—”

“God, El, no. It’s fine. You don’t have to—I’ve not been very easy to be around lately. I’ve just been this, like, weird cave gremlin hiding out in my room, and I’ve been so screwed up about everything—”

“Um,” Eliot says gently. “I think you’re doing just fine, all things considered.”

All things considered.

An empty phrase, really. Yet one that holds so much; all these things, unnameable and inexpressible that are brimming to the surface of him lately, all these things Quentin knows, suddenly, and with a twinge of certainty that only comes from long-held experience, he should never bring up with Eliot.

If Quentin didn’t know better, he’d say Eliot looks almost shy. “Unbelievably gauche to bring this up, I know, but there was a time when I thought I’d never see you again. Maybe we’ve both had our issues lately, but, Q—I’m so unbelievably happy to see you. For now, can we just start from there?”

Quentin, a little floored by the depth and incongruity of this outpouring of sincerity, nods faintly, and leads him over to the kitchen where Eliot rummages around and makes them elaborately fruity drinks to take out onto the tiny balcony. They sit on the small half-shaded two-seater that takes up most of the space and play a round of cards, which Quentin suspects Eliot only loses out of sheer disinterest in winning. He searches for a safe topic of conversation, landing eventually on, “So, you’re back in Fillory? What else is going on there these days?”

“This might be hard to believe, but things are actually going… pretty well? I mean, there was the whole wombat insurrection, but I wasn’t really around for that. And a civil war almost broke out between the Northern and Southern pixie clans, but Fen’s becoming quite the diplomat. Fen and Margo ran a joint campaign for High King in the elections. You know, because Fillory has those for real now. There’s gonna be a whole revamp of the council, which I’m—well. I’ve been helping out with that. There’s a lot of unrest still, but, you know.” He shrugs. “Baby steps.”

“No, but that’s great about Margo and Fen. Especially Fen. I mean, not that Margo isn’t—or that you weren’t—both of you, totally, um, fabulous kings,” he says quickly. “Just, well. Fillorians getting to rule their own land is kind of a big deal.”

Eliot stretches out his long legs, leaning back into the corner against the wall. “Mm, it’s a step in the right direction, for sure. Though naturally Fillory will never again be graced with a ruler as devastatingly handsome as me, I was hardly the right fit for the job.”

“I dunno,” says Quentin quietly. “Margo really stepped up, and I’m happy for her. But you—you weren’t a bad king. It wasn’t something you wanted, or asked for, and so much shit got piled onto you, but you wanted the best for Fillory. And I really thought, like, that you were growing into it. Also, didn’t you basically get kicked out for doing too good a job and not being a wacky soap opera character like Ember wanted?”

“Hm,” Eliot says lightly. “Maybe you should write my hagiography.”

“You _tried_. And you cared. I always admired that,” Quentin says, a little too earnestly, taking a long drink to hide his cringe.

Eliot gives him an unreadable look. “Thanks, Q. Really… it means a lot. Coming from you, especially.”

“Well,” Quentin says, wanting to move on, and perhaps not considering his words as carefully as he’d like, “maybe giving Fillorians rights to the throne is one good thing that actually came from killing Ember.” Anxiety spikes through his chest; Quentin didn’t mean to pull on the thread from killing Ember to losing magic to trying to get magic back to Eliot being possessed—oh, fuck. He pulls in a harsh breath. “I mean, that’s probably a stretch. But I’m happy for Fen.”

Eliot just smiles, warm and open, like he’s glad to hear anything Quentin has to say, and he’s looking at Quentin like—

“Hey, whatever wacky hijinks came after, I think we can all agree that degenerate sheep god had it coming.”

Quentin laughs carefully, relieved. It’s not _not_ true, and regardless, he’s grateful for the save, and how elegantly Eliot has tucked away all the things Quentin doesn’t want to think about into the category of wacky hijinks. He leans back, drowsy in the heat of the moment, sunshine grazing at his skin.

“What about you,” Eliot asks, his tone careful like he’s not sure he ought to ask. “How are things here?”

Something about Eliot’s presence is bringing out a lightness in Quentin that he’d forgotten could ever exist. “Well, not to brag, or anything,” he says, eyes closed and suppressing a grin, “but, um, I recently came back from the dead. I dunno if you heard anything about that?”

Eliot’s surprise lasts for a long moment before he begins to laugh, and both reactions draw a swell of untold pleasure in Quentin’s stomach. He’s so sick of feeling shitty, sick of Julia and Kady’s shared little glances _right in front of him_ like they think he can’t see, and sick of Julia’s barely concealed concern, however justified it is.

To Quentin’s delight, Eliot plays along. “Oh, that old trope? Don’t you have any other tricks up your sleeve?”

“Wow, not impressive enough for you, huh?” Quentin grins. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of miracles. It’s all lying around and forgetting to eat or shower from here on out, I’m afraid.”

Eliot leans over and snags a strand of Quentin’s hair between his fingers. “Looking squeaky clean to me, Coldwater. Should I be honoured?”

Quentin tilts his head, caught in Eliot’s gaze. He swallows. A shiver sparks over the nape of his neck like cracked ice. “Um, definitely. I mean, you don’t even want to know what Julia’s had to deal with.” Yeah, it’s self-deprecating, but also, it’s the truth, and it feels better to joke about it, something Quentin forgets how to do with most people, but never with Eliot. Perhaps some things will always go unspoken between them (though Quentin can’t quite remember what those things _are_ ), but Eliot’s always been there for Quentin when it comes to his broken brain and the unending misery and torment it unleashes on him.

“Julia mentioned you’ve been working at Hedge Quarters?”

Quentin searches for a hint of hedge witch snobbery in Eliot’s expression, and finds nothing but genuine interest.

“A bit. Not much, lately.”

“She said you pretty much overhauled the entire space. Showed me the before and after pictures.”

“Wait, when did you see Julia?”

“Oh,” Eliot says. “There was a party last week—Josh’s birthday.”

Quentin recalls vaguely that Julia had mentioned this, resigned to the fact that there was no way in hell he was gonna go. What he hadn’t connected was that, like, all of their friends would be there. That Eliot would be there. For so long now, Quentin’s world has been reduced to the four walls of his bedroom, occasionally expanding just enough to include Julia and sometimes Kady, before snapping right back again.

“Right, yeah. Julia did mention it. Just not that she saw you. Anyway. Yeah, I’ve helped out here and there, but Kady and Julia are doing amazing stuff. It’s incredible just being there, seeing them build like, not just an educational space, but a real community, everything from the ground up. And some Brakebills staff are involved too—but the whole ethos is so refreshing compared to Brakebills, actually? They’re trying to work from a much more horizontal structure, breaking down divisions between disciplines, and it’s so much more open and collaborative, and, well, it’s just really good, um. What they’re doing.” Quentin trails off, the back of his neck heating as he realises he’s been talking for too long, and has possibly gotten a little too excited in the process. An old shame claws at him like a hand from the grave. 

Instead of the careless quip Quentin’s expecting, Eliot’s smile grows impossibly fond. “Do you think you’d want to work there? Instructing, or facilitating, or whatever they’re gonna call it?” It strikes Quentin that for Eliot to know these details about the pedagogical debates they’ve been having, he must have talked to Julia and or Kady about it. Like, a real conversation. The question also cuts a little too closely to one of his biggest and most enduring worries, which is that he’ll never find anything to do with his life. Back to square fucking one with that one. “Me? God, no, I don’t think I could…”

Something about the warmth of Eliot’s expression, the lines of his body open and languid, makes Quentin want to be honest. “So, coming back from the dead is impressive and all—no matter what _some_ people might think,” he says, flashing a quick grin at Eliot, “but now that means I have to actually do something with my life, and once again, I have no clue.”

Eliot doesn’t dismiss his fears or tell him there’s nothing to worry about. He listens patiently, then says, “That’s really shitty, not knowing, and the pressure of it all.” Eliot looks down at his hands, long fingers interlaced, considering his words before looking at Quentin with something curious in his gaze, something Quentin’s not sure he recognises. “You know, Q, you’re not the only one pulling miracles out of your ass—it’s not quite as spectacular as a resurrection, I’ll grant you, but did I ever tell you about the time I got possessed by a baby god monster, then woke up and fell into the most _unspeakable_ melancholy, all because my best friend wasn’t around to cheer me up?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Quentin says, offering a half-smile, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through him.

“Oh,” says Eliot, so seriously that Quentin frowns. “I was talking about my _other_ best friend, you remember Todd, hm? Well, you see, he skipped town that summer—”

“Dick,” Quentin says fondly, shutting Eliot up by flinging a cushion at his head.

It’s kind of nice, actually, putting all their trauma out there, a collection of battered skeletons with shattered skulls and cracked bones laid out between them in the afternoon sun. Right now, in the blaze of heat and in this small bubble with Eliot, Quentin can’t imagine how he’d come to feel quite so fragile, or how things had gotten so dark, his world so embarrassingly small.

“Anyway,” Eliot says, picking the thread back up, “I’m telling you this because I get it, or at least some of it. And you don’t have to figure it out right away. Fuck knows I haven’t.”

“I know, it’s just.” Quentin hesitates. “It’s been hard since I got back. I mean, you must’ve noticed. I haven’t exactly been quite… right.” He appreciates that Eliot doesn’t try to pretend otherwise, instead nodding with gentle understanding. Looking determinedly away, he admits, “I’m doing better? A lot better, but still, I think I might actually be having one of the worst depressive episodes of my entire life? Which is saying a lot. So, there’s that.”

“Jesus, Q. Come the fuck over here, right now,” Eliot demands. His arms circle Quentin’s shoulders, pulling him close like always. “I don’t know what to say, I don’t want to fob you off with some ‘it gets better’ crap. Sometimes it just fucking doesn’t.”

“Yeah,” Quentin half-whispers into Eliot’s neck. “I just. Look at all the bad shit that’s happened to everyone. Julia has PTSD because something brutal and awful happened to her, and she’s fucking dealing with it. I’ve never been able to deal with just… being here. I don’t know how to be a person. I never have, and I’m worried I never will.” He pulls back, anxious and about to apologise when Eliot strokes his thumb along Quentin’s jawline, giving him a peculiar look that’s almost rueful. “You know—” his hand falls away, and Quentin draws in a sharp breath— “I’m not saying it’s the same as what happened to Julia. It’s not. But depression isn’t the result of something terrible that happened to you—depression _is_ the terrible awful thing that happened to you.”

“Oh.” Something snaps in Quentin’s brain—a tightly woven thread, a story he’s always told himself about why he’s broken and always will be—as his worldview shifts to accommodate what Eliot has said. “Huh, I never really thought about it like that?”

“M’not just a pretty face,” Eliot says lazily, head tipping back to catch the sun, the strange expression evaporated as quickly as it’d appeared. “Brilliant insights and pithy commentary—here all week.”

“But, that’s actually a really helpful way to look at it.”

“Okay, you could sound a little less shocked,” Eliot says with an air of faux indignance that makes Quentin smile. “I am incredibly perceptive, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure,” Quentin says, drawing out the vowel. “Of course you are.” He catches the cushion Eliot throws at him, launching it back perhaps more quickly than Eliot’d been expecting, as when he tries to dodge it he does something very un-Eliot like, leg jerking out gracelessly and kicking the table, knocking everything to the floor with a clatter and sending them both into hysterics.

“Oh, you are going _down_ , Coldwater…”

They throw cushions at each other like children, eventually sliding to the floor in a heap of sweat and giggles. In no time at all, the sky is darkening, and Eliot has to go. “I’ll see you soon, though, right?” Quentin says, hopeful and hesitant.

Eliot ducks his head, that almost-shy look returning. “Would it be weird to come by again, like, in a couple of days? If you’re free, I mean.”

“Hm,” Quentin snorts. “Wow, let me see, my schedule is so packed right now…” Suddenly, he can’t keep the banter going. “I missed you. Can I…?” He wraps himself around Eliot one more time, delighting in the comfort of his tall frame, the familiar scent of him.

“Anytime, Q,” Eliot says into his hair before pressing another kiss to his forehead. “I missed you, too.”

*

“Is it really so embarrassing to have wanted a boyfriend?” asks Laura.

Eliot laughs harshly. “A guy like Mike would never have been interested in someone like me. I should’ve known that.”

“Why wouldn’t he have been interested?”

“Come on. This nice, normal guy who drinks _beer_ and is _so_ into me. I read his book, you know. I mean, a page or two. He wouldn’t. A guy like that. He would never have—”

“It’s true that Martin Chatwin took away Mike’s ability to consent. Yours too, I might add, and that’s something we’ll need to return to when you’re ready. But what I’m getting from you right now is a sense that you don’t believe you’re deserving of love and intimacy.”

There’s a long silence, during which Eliot stares moodily past Laura’s shoulder. Finally, he says what he’s thinking, which is a thing he can do now sometimes, even when it’s embarrassing, which in this room, it almost always is.

“It’s like when you’re a kid, right? And other kids pretend to be your friend cause it’s _so_ hilarious when you fall for it. Like you’re such an idiot for actually believing they’d want to be friends with—and I mean, I was. I was a dumb fucking kid, I fell for that shit more than once. And I fell for it all over again with Mike. I should’ve known better.”

“That’s a very cruel trick—”

“Yeah, yeah, just toss it onto the trauma heap and set the whole thing on fire already.”

“I’m interested in this connection you’ve drawn between what happened when you were a child, and what happened as an adult with Mike.”

Eliot shrugs uncomfortably, feeling like he’s said far too much already. But, then, he always feels like that. Thankfully, for once, Laura continues without his input. “Martin is responsible for deceiving both of you to achieve his own ends. And intellectually, you know that.”

Eliot nods slowly, swallowing, throat thick.

“Emotionally, though, you feel as though the trick you fell for is the idea that another man would want to be your boyfriend, that he would love and care for you.”

“Mm,” is all he can manage, stomach seizing.

“We’ve talked about the shame you feel about wanting to be loved.”

“We sure have.” Eliot feels horribly faint.

“You told me that Brakebills was the first place you ever felt safe, that you were becoming someone you actually liked.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far. But, okay.”

“You had a solid connection with Margo, a new friend in Quentin, and a new boyfriend you were falling for. You were allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Investing in someone like that and then finding out it was a lie must’ve been devastating, and that’s before we even get to the trauma involved with taking someone’s life in self-defence.”

“Mm,” says Eliot again, smoothing out a wrinkle in his pants.

“I can see why it was so incredibly difficult for you to be open with Quentin about how much you love him,” she says, out of nowhere, her words hitting Eliot like a block of granite, his whole body slammed with tension.

“What?” His throat catches. “That’s not—” Tears prick at his eyes, and Eliot closes them until it passes. “It wasn’t anything like that with Quentin—he’s not like that, he would never—”

“I don’t mean that Quentin was trying to trick you like your classmates and Martin. I’m talking about you. I think it makes a lot of sense that you would struggle to be vulnerable again after what happened to you. First, surviving those formative experiences of abuse, and then again, after what Martin did.”

When Eliot looks at her, his eyes are wet. “It was just too much,” he whispers. “I had to shut it down. I wish—why did I do that?”

“The barriers we put in the way of love and intimacy are always leftover from times when those barriers were all we had to protect us. The problem is that they outlive their original purpose, which was to keep us safe. When we hold onto them, they end up causing more pain than they prevent.”

_That’s definitely not you._

_Go and be life partners with someone else._

_Let’s save our overthinking…_

“You think that’s why I said those things to Q?”

She looks at him, steady as ever. “Do you think so?”

Eliot looks away.

*

True to his word, Eliot comes over to the apartment again a few days later, pulling Quentin into another life-altering hug that makes his skin spark with possibility. He doesn’t quite want the feeling to end, this dizzying sense that something he’s been missing is slotting back into place. Eliot’s eyes are soft, lips curling up at the corners in a small, private smile, and Quentin remembers thinking he’d never see him again, the forgotten anguish swerving anew in his gut. Unsure if it’s okay or not, Quentin reaches out, fingers sweeping light over Eliot’s jawline. Eliot is surprised for a moment, then pleased, smiling again as he nudges into Quentin’s hand, pressing a kiss to the tip of his thumb. Déjà vu drops in his stomach; he’s seen that exact look on Eliot’s face before—a flicker of firelight in the corner of Quentin’s eye, resolve igniting in his belly, something sweet and sticky on his tongue that gets swallowed up by Eliot’s surprise and his pleasure alike.

When he looks at Eliot now, Quentin is overcome with the same sensation he’d felt when Julia had staged her intervention in the city, that there can’t possibly be enough space inside him to contain everything he’s feeling, though precisely _what_ he’s feeling is difficult to determine. All he knows is that it’s _good_ , and he wants more. He pulls Eliot into another hug, savouring the press of his body. Eliot’s thumb slips over the back of his neck, and Quentin shivers.

They pull apart in a daze, Eliot’s cheeks a little pink, both of them uncertain. It hits him as Eliot sits down that Quentin hasn’t thought ahead about food or wine, or any of the things you’re meant to do when you invite someone over. This is oddly new territory for Quentin, and he admits as much, a little sheepish as he offers to run to the bodega for wine. Eliot won’t hear of it though, so Quentin orders pizza and they forget to put a movie on while they wait, and again while they eat, instead catching up on everything, the way friends do when they’ve been out of each other’s lives for a while. This, too, is new territory, but Quentin feels like he’s talking more this evening than he’s managed in the whole time since he got back. He listens plenty, too, as Eliot tells him more about the growing pains of Fillory’s new democracy, and Fen and Margo’s thankless endeavours to improve the lives of a populace seemingly dead set against their own interests.

When he’s clearing the pizza boxes away, Quentin comes across a bottle of wine Julia opened with Kady the day before. He considers it for a moment. It hasn’t occurred to him to drink much since he got back, too sunk in the gutters of this latest depression to even muster the effort to drown his sorrows. But now, Quentin feels like he’s uncovering more and more of who he used to be, and even occasional glimpses of who he _wants_ to be. Surely, he thinks, that’s something to celebrate. He nods to himself, decision made, reaching for two glasses as Eliot returns from the bathroom.

“Look what I found—you want some? I’ll replace it tomorrow, Julia won’t mind.” Quentin’s asking out of politeness, really, since he’s never known Eliot to turn down a drink (well, unless he was being snobby about Todd’s perfectly nice cocktails at cottage parties). He wonders if he imagines a flash of uncertainty on Eliot’s face as he takes the glass.

Sitting here doing nothing with Eliot reminds Quentin of simpler times. Not that they’d seemed simple at the time, but they sure as fuck do now. It reminds him that it hadn’t all been monsters and quests. Before any of that, there had been Brakebills. Maybe Brakebills hadn’t saved him from his own fucked up brain, but it’d been an awakening, all the same. Such a huge part of that awakening had been Eliot—and Margo, too. Even now, he can’t quite believe they’d even wanted to be friends with him. Both of them so quick-witted and smart—and, okay, hot. Holding their attention has always felt as inexplicable as it is addictive; a dream come true as much as the revelation that magic is real.

Alice, too. Their prickly beginnings had turned into something more tender than Quentin could ever have imagined a relationship being when he’d been not-so-secretly in love with Julia. He’d never been able to quite believe that Alice had wanted him back. Someone as ridiculously smart and pretty—and funny, too. Not many people knew how funny she could be, and Quentin had felt a special sort of pride at being one of the only people Alice would relax around, enough at least to let loose her very particular and often peculiar sense of humour.

“It’s weird that I’m going back to Brakebills again,” Quentin says, struck to the quick with nostalgia. School won’t be the same without them all.

“You are? I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, Julia suggested it. I was kinda reluctant, I guess, but it’s probably the right thing to do.”

“How’s it going with your magic? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s wanting to get something off his chest, but Quentin doesn’t mind at all. Everyone wants him to get stuck into doing magic again, but whenever he thinks about magic, a small, stubborn knot twists up inside him. He’s afraid, he realises that much; but it’s the kind of fear that seems to have no origin. “My magic did come back. Or, well. I did a spell. It was kind of unintentional.”

“That’s… great? Isn’t it?” Eliot’s clearly struggling to get a read on the situation.

“Is it?” Quentin asks, setting his glass down and tucking his legs underneath him. “Do you really think it’s a good thing?”

Eliot frowns. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t know? It’s like, I’ve spent my whole life wishing magic was real and now, what? I don’t want it anymore? I feel like I’m just this person who never appreciates what he actually has, how good my life really is.”

Eliot’s quiet for a long moment, draining his glass and placing it next to Quentin’s. “It’s odd,” he starts, and unthinkingly, Quentin begins to lean forward, magnetised by that same strange expression flitting across Eliot’s face, reshaping his features into an unknown configuration he’s desperate to decode. Some sliver of awareness tells him Eliot’s about to say something that really matters; the muscles of his lower back contract, reining him in so as not to jeopardise the potential he can feel crackling in the air. He’d almost swear he sees sparks from Eliot’s fingertips.

“Brakebills was the first place I ever really felt like myself. But even there, after what happened. You know, with Mike.” Eliot grimaces. “It just soured the whole thing. I think that’s partly why I was so ready to jump headlong into Fillory, the wedding, all of it.”

“Eliot, I—” Quentin stops, unsure whether Eliot will want to hear this, or if Quentin’s making it all about himself. _Just like you always_ — “I wish I’d been a better friend to you back then. I was so wrapped up in the quest and the Beast, and I didn’t even really notice how awful it must’ve been. With Mike. It was shitty of me.”

“Oh, Q,” Eliot says, ruffling Quentin’s hair, eyes bright and affectionate. “I appreciate that, really. But, come on. I was the hottest mess this side of the Atlantic, and all I’d have done is push you away. It’s kinda my signature move, if you haven’t noticed.”

A tug behind Quentin’s ribs, some perilous notion—something _important_ that he can’t quite grasp. He’s familiar enough with this process by now to realise that his mind is doing some intensive emotional excavation. He absolutely has noticed Eliot’s signature move, is intimately familiar with this defensive tactic, one which usually goes unspoken. Because Eliot so often uses it on Quentin—

“Hard to miss,” Quentin says, mind freezing like his old laptop, unable to process any of the programmes he’s trying to open before frantically shutting them down again. His system can’t take it. Too much. He slams the lid, pulls himself back to the matter at hand—they’re meant to be talking about his crappy behaviour, not Eliot’s. “Anyway,” he continues, “I should’ve been a better friend. I’m sorry. It was messed up, what happened.”

“It was.” Eliot’s looking right at him, and Quentin can’t read his expression at all. “That’s not why I brought it up, though. I know what it’s like to invest so much of yourself in something, and then, I don’t know, feel differently about it. Magic is a part of you, but so much has happened, and I don’t think it’s ungrateful or selfish to be wary of magic; I think it’s just a response to your experiences with it.”

A shimmering relief slices through the morass of Quentin’s inner turmoil. “Yeah, I thought you’d get it. I don’t know how I’ll feel in the future. Obviously. But right now, the thought of going back to Brakebills feels like—well. Going backwards. And all I’m doing right now is just about managing to stand still.” Quentin closes his eyes, curling into the softness of the couch throw—Julia’s purchase, but one which Quentin has claimed as his own. “I don’t know how to make the future happen.”

“The future can wait a little longer, Q. You came back from the dead. You can take a minute.”

“Yeah,” says Quentin, lifting his head. “I guess so.” He doesn’t really believe it anymore than he did before, but it’s nice to hear it, to think that Eliot believes it’s true. There’s a comfortable lull in the conversation, both of them relaxed, their bodies over the course of the evening having gradually sunk into each other’s orbit, slowly gravitating and closing the space between them. It’s as overwhelming and exhilarating as it ever was to have captured Eliot’s attention so fully, and Quentin doesn’t know how he's done it, only that now he’s greedy for it, wants Eliot to always look at him like this. Like he might—

Their knees graze. And Quentin—wants. What he wants remains unclear, the blurred shape of his desire trapped behind glass. For now, he’s content to let the surreal certainty of newly awakened wanting course through him in a way he couldn’t have anticipated yesterday, or even that same morning. But, wait. Was it only Thursday that Eliot had come over for the first time? The world tilts, and Quentin thinks maybe the wine wasn’t such a great idea. Eliot’s here, and Quentin’s insides struggle to accommodate the rush of emotion and anticipation he’s brought with him. He leans forward again, as though maybe—

Eliot’s hand hardly skims Quentin’s shoulder, a jolt of electricity bursts through his skin. He yelps, expecting it to hurt, but feels only a strange euphoria crackling through him, a shimmer of bright tremors down his spine and along his arm that flicker and fade to a yearning throb.

Stricken, Eliot yanks his hand back as though he’s the one who’s just been shocked. “Fuck, Q, I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

His shoulder is fizzing hot, aftershocks bone-deep and tender. “I’m fine. What was—what just happened?”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Ah, no? It was just really intense.” He’s not lying; the force of Eliot’s magic had that same exhilarating quality as his gaze, bracing and disorientating, like crashing into icy water and gasping for breath. Part of him wants Eliot to do it again.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Eliot says again, hand hovering near Quentin’s shoulder again before he pulls it back sharply. “Shit. There’s been, uh.” He flattens his palms over his face with a dramatic little moan. “So, my magic’s a bit… fucked. It’s not a big deal.”

“Your magic’s fucked?” Quentin echoes. “What does that mean? You weren’t even casting anything—were you?”

Eliot seems to get a hold of himself, distance yawning between them as he turns to face Quentin. That earlier crackle and fizz of intimacy hasn’t evaporated, exactly, but it’s certainly dampened. Eliot’s posture has drawn tight, and the deep breaths he’s taking don’t seem to be helping. Quentin can see an unfamiliar anxiety in the line of his jaw and the clench of his hands, though he recalls all too well the reluctance in the purse of Eliot’s mouth when he speaks.

“No, I wasn’t casting. That’s part of what’s fucked.” His face shadows. “It started soon after I got my body back. Things were kinda hard for a while.” Eliot gives a feeble sort of shrug that can’t even begin to convey what he must’ve been going through.

“The monster.”

“Well, yeah,” says Eliot slowly, “but also, you know. You were dead, and I couldn’t deal with it. Like, at all.”

“I’m sorry—”

Eliot’s shoulders stiffen. Half-laughing without humour, he says, “Quentin, you were _dead_ , don’t apologise, Jesus.”

Quentin surprises both of them by laughing for real. Because, yeah. It’s pretty ridiculous. The tension radiating from Eliot seems to dissipate somewhat, his features softening. “I was a bit messed up, uh, _emotionally_.” He rolls his eyes as though to ward against the underlying threat of his sincerity. “And my magic went on the fritz. It’s mostly under control now, but still gets a bit—well. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, really. Are you all right, though?”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, and then amends, “I’m getting there.”

Quentin studies him for a moment, a small frown creasing his forehead. “You’re like, different now.”

His mouth twists, giving him a pained expression that Quentin finds utterly endearing. “I’m trying to be.”

This admission, so unlike the Eliot he remembers, makes something curl sharply in his belly. Even if Quentin is the same as he ever was, or has perhaps even regressed, Eliot is somehow different.

“How come?”

Something jagged carves across Eliot’s face. He looks at Quentin squarely. “I’ve done things I regret. And I’ve said things I regret. And I want to become the sort of person who won’t make those mistakes again.”

Quentin’s head blurs as he takes this in, trying to integrate this with his existing memories of Eliot. His wry humour remains intact and he smells the same, almost otherworldly—the rough hint of cigarette smoke, the underlying spice of his cologne and a cut of something that must be one of his fancy hair products, light and sweet, slightly floral—the combination of which is altogether intoxicatingly _Eliot_. “Mistakes are part of what make us human,” he says, slow and thick, making his way through the rush and flow of his thoughts. “We _are_ our mistakes; we can’t grow, or change, or become ourselves without them.”

Eliot nods, expression unchanging. 

Quentin doesn’t know what to make of this. Not only does Eliot have regrets, he’s telling Quentin about them. Voluntarily. Like that’s a thing he does now. It jars so much with Quentin’s sense of how things had worked between them, and he wonders if he were to ask, would Eliot divulge details, or is this as far as it goes? He doesn’t especially want to run the scenario, telling himself it’s because he doesn’t want to pry, when really it’s because he doesn’t want to give Eliot the opportunity to pull his signature move. Quentin nods too, slowly, looking across at Eliot. Eliot who’s looking back at Quentin like he’s the only thing that matters to him in the world. Had he always looked at Quentin this way? He can’t be sure, not really, but even asking the question is a jolt not unlike the hunger and snap of electricity still sparking faintly where Eliot touched him. Something stirs inside him, leaves kicked up in the wind, something he’s not felt for such a long time—

“Eliot, I.” Disconcerted, Quentin stops. He wants something, very much, and he thinks it might actually just be Eliot himself, but Quentin can’t quite process this as a possibility, his mind hazing over the finer details and dragging him back to the spark of Eliot’s touch, the catch of his gaze like the snap of a clasp into its rightful place. (Like the snicking shut of the ornate silver pocket watch he’d given Eliot for his thirtieth birthday—or was it his fortieth? A reminder of their past, a small impractical luxury that Eliot had cherished, thumb rubbing over the metal every time he used it). Quentin’s breath hitches. “We should do something,” he says, instead of what he really wants to say. He doesn’t know what that is yet. It pricks at his skin; an unknowable and indefinable thing taking shape in the space between himself and Eliot, the air thrumming with something as yet undetermined, something on the verge of being realised, though Quentin has no real sense of what might come to fruition. “We should do something to celebrate.”

“Oh yeah?” Eliot asks, the rough wine-soaked timbre shuddering through Quentin’s chest. “What’re we celebrating?”

“Us,” Quentin says simply. “We’re alive—I actually. God. I’m not really capable of doing a whole lot right now. Like, literally, I still can’t get out of bed some days. Sometimes a lot of days in a row. And the fact that this is an improvement on a few months ago…”

“Q, you _came back from the dead_. You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t even mean it like that. I mean, thanks.” He laughs, a vertiginous relief spinning through him. “What I meant was, I thought I’d never see you again. And since I got back, I, I haven’t really felt glad to be here until now. Like, right now, tonight. Um, with you. So. Thank you.”

“That definitely merits a celebration.” Eliot’s crooked smile does terrible things to Quentin’s heart. “So, are we talking the whole gang here?”

Mildly horrified at the thought, Quentin’s eyes widen dramatically. “Ah, I wasn’t really—?”

“Smaller? Julia, Kady—” Quentin’s lips press together, head shaking— “Or, just the two of us?”

His shoulders drop. “Yeah. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, you’re no Todd,” Eliot says, grinning. “But you’ll do.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, not dignifying this with a response. “I don’t know what, but we should do _something_ , you know? We’re still alive and like, intact. Mostly.” He pauses. “Wow, have you ever heard of anything more tragic as cause for celebration?”

“Honestly? No. Sadly, I can’t say the shoe doesn’t fit…”

And on they go like this, until it’s a wrench that Eliot’s leaving again. Quentin’s only just got him back, after all, has only just realised he was missing something so vital. But although they don’t make any plans, Quentin gets the sense it’s because they don’t need to. He knows they’ll see each other soon. 

*

Things had really been looking up. After the first two nerve-wracking visits, Eliot’s hung out with Quentin a few more times—they’d actually watched a movie, talked through another one, gotten coffee and had brunch. Normal-ass shit. Eliot’s magic had gone off and the world hadn’t ended. But now…

“Bambi!”

“What’s this ass-fuckery all about?” Margo calls from what passes for a bathroom in Fillory. “You know I’ve got those Floater dickwads coming today, and I gotta—oh. Oh, shit. El. What happened?”

“I had some wine with Quentin last week,” he says unsteadily, perching on the edge of Margo’s bed.

“Okay…”

“And then some god-awful bourbon last night after therapy.”

She nods, sitting next to him while she puts her earring in, the big fuck-off red ones that match her crown. “You gotta tell Quentin how you feel.”

Pathetically, Eliot just flops back onto the bed, hiding his face with his hands. Margo drops back too, with a little more grace, still only half-dressed. “Yeah, you’re not as good at hiding your feelings as you think. Not from me, anyway. I’m betting Coldwater doesn’t know shit. So, tell him, then he can either put you out of your misery once and for all, or you can bang. I vote the latter, obvs.”

To Eliot’s surprise, he doesn’t even want to deny it anymore, has been holding onto these feelings for too long now already. “Yeah, Laura says I need to talk to him. But I’m not ready. What a fucking cliché.”

Shifting sideways to face him, Margo props up onto her elbow, looking at him almost kindly, which is actually disturbing. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll never be ready. You’ll waste away into geriatric senility waiting to be ready, you absolute fucking dumbass.”

Eliot flinches, less at Margo’s words and more at the memories they dredge up—

Her eyes sharpen. “You have to do things when they need doing, whether you’re ready or not.”

—because, yeah, he and Quentin had spent a life together and it’d been exactly as Quentin once said: _They were good years, don’t you think?_ It’d been easier than he expected to finally tell Quentin he loved him. Of course, Quentin had said it first and Eliot had balked, running far and fast, and there had been so many other big and little things that came between them in those early years—but he’d said it.

It’d also been surprisingly easy to have a committed, loving relationship and still never fully open himself up to Quentin. Eliot had assumed that relationships were all or nothing, but in reality, there were a thousand ways to love Quentin while still holding him in some kind of reserve. Brushing off difficult feelings, never admitting to his insecurities and rarely actually properly talking about things that mattered. They’d been very good years, but part of Eliot had done exactly as Margo is now cautioning against; he’d waited to be ready, and that day had never come.

“You’re right.”

“Wait, what?” Surprising Margo is such a rare delicacy, but Eliot’s not in the mood to savour it properly.

“I’ve wasted enough time. You’re right. But I also need to take Quentin’s mental health into account here—he’s still not doing great, and I don’t want to upset him, or throw him off track. He told me that when he came back everything was greyed out, and then whenever anything gets coloured in… I dunno. It seems to trigger his depression pretty bad.”

“Hm. Well, that sucks, and I’m not just being a flip little bitch, okay? That shit can’t stay greyed out forever. You gotta find a way to talk to him, El. Maybe it can’t be this second—you need to sober the fuck up, for one—oh, wait—” Margo rolls over, rummaging in a drawer by the bed. “Mama’s got your back, sweet cheeks.” She tosses him a small vial.

“Oh, thank _fuck_ ,” Eliot says, drinking the thick hangover potion with a groan.

“So, are you finally gonna tell me what happened between you two? Got drunk and banged, then cocked out on each other?”

“Something like that,” he says faintly, wondering if Margo would leave it alone now that they’ve come this far, and then realising that he doesn’t actually want her to. He shoves it out before he can think better of it. “Hey, remember the time key? And how you stopped us from going through the clock?”

“Uh, _yeah_ I fuckin’ remember getting a letter saying you two dummies were _dead_ and then digging up a _corpse_. Hard to forget the stench of death under your fingernails. Why are you making me relive this horror show?”

“Because we remembered.” Eliot pulls in a shaky breath and tells Margo everything. He tells her about Quentin, Arielle, Teddy; the beauty of all life spills out of Eliot until he feels calm and empty and clearer than he has for a long time.

When he’s finished, Margo says, “I was right then.”

“About what?”

“You and Q. Fucking knew it,” she gloats.

“Really? You knew that we lived together doing the same goddamn puzzle every day for fifty years?”

She ignores him. “I knew it. Between what he was like when you were gone, and what _you_ were like when _he_ was gone. Motherfucker. You gonna grow a pair of tits and talk to him?”

“He probably doesn’t want—”

“Not even remotely the point.”

“So… what was he like? When I was gone, I mean. Alice said—well. He can get a bit single-minded about a quest, we all know that.”

Margo looks uncomfortable. “I actually didn’t see a lot of him. Look, I couldn’t handle it. That shady piece of shit was trying to take your place and I couldn’t stand to be around it, so I fucked off and came here. I didn’t—I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I knew at the time I should’ve been doing more, but I was—” Her chin wobbles, the one true signifier that Margo Hanson gives a shit.

Eliot slides an arm around her. “Hey, you gutted me like a fish with that badass axe—what more could any friend ask, really?”

“A lot more,” she says. “I should’ve—I _knew_. But when Kady came back and told us about Quentin’s internal circumstances, it really hit me. How bad things got for him.”

Something splinters in Eliot’s chest. “Oh.” Raw magic rages beneath his skin. “I think—I didn’t know any of that,” he says quickly, hoping to curtail any explosions. “But I was so mad at you, when I first came back. And I couldn’t really work out why. Hearing you say all that, I think I was mad because—it’s dumb, you weren’t even there at the Seam that day. But I was mad at all of you. For not saving him, for letting him go. Because he died instead of me. I would’ve given anything for it to be the other way around.”

“Don’t fucking—” Margo looks furious but reins herself in. “Okay, we’re gonna do this therapy style, since I know how much you love that hippie crap now, okay? I get why you were mad. Knowing all this? Shit, I’d be mad too. But I can’t stand hearing you say that. Not after what I went through when you were gone.”

“Well, it’s the fucking truth,” Eliot says, without heat. His magic settles. “Look, I know you had Fillory to worry about. What happened to Q wasn’t your fault.”

“I _know_ that,” Margo says, wiping at her eyes. “Fuck you for making me feel things after I’ve just done my eyeliner, you dick. And also? It wasn’t about a quest for him. Q was single-minded all right, but it was all Team Eliot this and Save Eliot that. It was you, all the way.”

Eliot takes this in, quite badly wanting to believe it, but unable to get any further than _I don’t know what that feels like anymore._ But Margo’s right. He didn’t really talk to Quentin properly, and if anything, he’d engineered it that way. After almost a year of delving deeper into his own psyche than he’s ever wanted to go, Eliot is beginning to realise precisely how much he excels at self-sabotage. Even when he’s trying his goddamn best, he’s got a knife in his own back.

“When did you become so badass at this whole _feelings_ thing, anyway?”

Margo laughs, her smudged eyes crinkling. “I’m always a badass, El. Never fucking forget it. Seriously, though? I told you I had the whole desert revelation, come-to-Jesus blah blah, but please—that shit looks good on TV, and sure, it kicked up the cobwebs, but you gotta deal with that crap in the day to day. You get what I’m saying?”

“You mean you still go to therapy?” God, Eliot can still hardly say the word without sneering.

“Nah, I’m good for now. All I mean is that it sounds like you had your big revelation, and oh my _god_ , as if your biggest regret is turning _Quentin Coldwater_ down.” She smirks wickedly, her lips curving in a way that’s always set Eliot’s blood racing. “Second-year Eliot would be tearing the cottage apart right now.”

“Okay, my second biggest regret might be telling you about any of this,” he says, throwing down as much acid as he’s got, but Margo just laughs like the bitch king she is, and Eliot loves her fiercely for it.

“ _Anyway_ , your lovelorn antics aside—you’re taking care of your shit, and I’m fucking proud of you.”

“That’s gross, but, uh. Thanks,” Eliot mutters. “Can I please go and pretend this conversation never happened?”

“It’s not bad to have feelings, El. I’m a goddamn king and that’s my decree.”

“You’ve changed,” he accuses.

She smiles a little sadly. “We all have.” And then, her smile brightens, edging on devious. “I’ve got a plan. You’re gonna seduce the _shit_ out of that boy.”

“Wow, how romantic,” he says, dubious.

“Since when do you give two flying shits about romance?” Margo says, in a tone that suggests she knows precisely how many shits Eliot gives, which has always been more than he’d like.

“I don’t think seduction is the way to go here.”

Margo snorts loudly. “You really are the softest bitch,” she says fondly. “Look, I’m tearing my hair out over these dull as dicks proposals today, but tomorrow?” She leans over to press a kiss to his lips. “We’re hitting the shops.”

*

Eliot survived the monster. Quentin survived death. And the thing that’d always sparked between him and Eliot, the thing that made Quentin light up with pleasure whenever Eliot entered a room—that’d survived too. It makes Quentin smile at odd moments; in the shower, he’ll be rinsing his hair and it’ll sink into him, the knowledge that he and Eliot have something special still, even if that something is intangible, never named or brought out into the light. It’s there, and that’s all that matters.

After spending the morning doing nothing in particular with Eliot, Quentin’s unloading the dishwasher and thinking about kissing him. He’s putting the cutlery away and thinking about Eliot’s lips, how soft they’d be. In another time and another place, Quentin’d thought that very same thing—how soft and urgent Eliot’s mouth would be against his—and it had been, because Quentin had stopped thinking about it and he’d done it; he’d kissed Eliot, and it’d been—everything. It’d changed everything.

Quentin puts the plates away, his quickening breath the only indication that something momentous is happening. It’s not like that day in the throne room when an entire lifetime had sunk into the marrow of him, synapses flooded and sparking new circuits with lost moments and fading souvenirs. Quentin already knew all of this. His logical brain knows he hadn’t forgotten the mosaic. But what before had been a mere sketch is now being shaded in brushstrokes of violent colour.

Later that evening, Quentin sits in bed with his knees up, remembering, really remembering what it had been like to be loved by Eliot. He considers actually talking to him about it, but then he remembers _that’s definitely not me_ and his chest prickles with doubt, and not a small amount of embarrassment that he’d thought, the other night, that Eliot might be about to—really fucking dumb, Coldwater. His stomach clenches. The last thing he wants is for Eliot to think Quentin’s trying to hit on him again. Which he hadn’t been. Quentin had gotten caught up in the pleasure of seeing his best friend again, that’s all. Except, is that all? He’s no longer certain of anything. The mosaic expands to fill the empty spaces inside him, and Quentin wishes it wouldn’t. Because now he knows, _really_ knows that Eliot had loved him once, and he wishes to god he could go back to the shitty line drawing of his life; a world that was less explosive and real and wondrous, and all the more secure for it.

Except. Quentin doesn’t have to sit with this alone. Kady’s on some mission for a joint taskforce that’s sprung up between the Library and the hedges, so he knocks on Julia’s door, a little hesitant now he’s actually up and out of bed, not sure this is a real problem at all. But Julia invites him in, flinging a heavy textbook to the floor with a thud, and Quentin flops down on the bed next to her. A mournful indie track is playing at a low volume, and Julia hums along to the chorus as they settle side by side.

Julia asks what’s wrong and Quentin tells her. He tells her about the time key and the clock, about falling headlong into a fifty-year adventure in a long-past Fillory. He tells her about Eliot.

“I loved him, Jules,” Quentin says, eyes shining with tears. “I loved him for so long, and when we remembered, when it hit us, I just thought—I don’t know. I feel like such a dumbass all over again.”

Julia leans over and hugs him, her affection fierce and uncompromising. “You’re not a dumbass. What you said took a lot of guts.”

“I just—and I don’t mean to drag all this up, I honestly don’t, but you never felt the same about me, and—it’s not about that, exactly, more that it’s a pattern? You didn’t feel it, and Alice—I fucked up everything with Alice, but even before that, there was a part of her that didn’t really want—she didn’t want to be with me—and then Eliot—”

Quentin shudders, curling onto his side and breathing in shakily. “He said it was crazy, and I know. I know it was.”

Julia makes him into the little spoon, wrapping an arm around him. “I mean, the whole thing is crazy. Like, fifty years in an alternate timeline is some next level shit. But, do you love him now?”

He laughs wetly through his tears, heart aching at the question that’s been slowly forcing its way into his every atom. “I don’t know.” He shifts to lie on his back, clasping his hands over his chest. “I remember loving him, and I’ve always—I mean, he’s my, one of my best friends. I guess I wanted to see what could happen, you know? We worked then, and I know we’re not the same people as the idiots who went through that clock, but back then I wanted to see if maybe we could make it work again. Now, though? I’m not sure. I mean—it doesn’t even matter. He didn’t want—” 

_Who gets proof of concept like that?_

Quentin scrambles upright, heart pounding. “Shit, that day in the park—” It’s all slamming into him at once—

_Fifty years…_

“What day?”

“The monster, the—fifty years. Peaches and—Jules, _the_ _park_.”

Time stops. Folds and unfolds in dizzying slashes of sound and colour peeled back and spat out like polaroids—

—the sickly pale yellow of Eliot’s—of _the monster’s_ shirt. 

—Eliot, folded back into his own skin and unfolded again within a burst of bright-hot-too-short seconds during which Quentin never got the chance to say— 

—the smell of blood, copper-red death thick in his throat.

—a fresh-cut grin he can’t suppress, nearly choking on the fervour of his newly resuscitated hope. 

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker_. Time starts. 

“Oh,” Julia says. “ _Oh_. Fifty years—I remember him saying that. There was so much else going on, I never really thought about—wait, he referenced your secret love affair during the, like, thirty seconds he had to break out of his mind palace? Dude, come on, he is totally into you.”

“It wasn’t a _secret love affair_ ,” Quentin huffs, mildly annoyed. “And maybe he just needed something unique that only I would know.” With shock, Quentin remembers not only that day in the park, but the excruciating back and forth debates it’d prompted in the aftermath, going over and over it—Eliot’s expression, his words, their meaning. And he hadn’t gotten anywhere with it.

“I think you should talk to him about it.”

“No, no way. I can’t do all of this again.”

“Okay, but you’ve been hanging out, right?”

“A few times, but. I wasted enough time trying to get Alice to want me back again. I don’t want to be the guy who gets stuck on a rejection, the guy who won’t take no for an answer.”

“I get what you’re saying, I do. A _lot_ has changed since then, is all. You didn’t see what Eliot was like when you died.”

“Well, I mean, of course you were all totally heartbroken, wailing oceans of tears every day,” Quentin says with a faint grin.

“Oceans of tears, really?” Julia pokes him in the side, and he yelps, giving her an indignant look. “Hm, fine. I’ll play. Let’s say, we all cried, I dunno, an ocean per day—”

“—Minus Penny. He’s, like, the Sahara of grief when it comes to me.”

“This is so fucking dumb.” Julia’s smiling, rolling her eyes. “Fine, minus Penny’s Sahara. What I’m _trying_ to say is that Eliot was pretty fucking broken. If we’re measuring it in oceans, I’m talking Pacific, Atlantic…”

“Hm.”

“But you’re right, too,” she says thoughtfully. “You deserve to be with someone who really wants you and is willing to say it out loud.”

“I just—oh _god_.” Quentin can’t take anymore, but it’s all flooding back in regardless.

_—I need to tell you, how sorry I am._

_—I’m sorry I told you we wouldn’t work. I don’t think that’s true—not at all._

— _I was scared and when I’m—_

“What?”

“He—I think. I don’t know? Maybe?”

“Quentin, make some goddamn sense, please.”

“But I was all weird and apathetic, and could like, hardly form words.” Quentin groans, mashing a palm against his forehead.

“Quentin! Tell me what the sweet hell you’re talking about.”

“He tried—I think he was trying? To ask me about the conversation we had. He apologised. It was right after I came back. Like, the day after. When everyone came over to the penthouse, remember?”

Julia whistles. “That’s some timing, wow.”

“Actually, yeah.” Quentin frowns. “That’s weird. It’s a weird thing for him to do at all? He never wanted to talk about it—you know, before. But, then, he’s sort of different now.”

“I think I know what you mean. Look, I don’t say this to make you feel bad, but the dude was _messed up_ with grief. Like it was eating away at him. He clearly has some regrets.”

An image crashes into his brain: Eliot, his hands shaking, eyes red-rimmed and hollowed out. His hair longer than it’s ever been—lank and unwashed, slicked back. It doesn’t feel like something that belongs to him; it’s not quite like the other memories that have been triggered today, but Quentin knows with keen certainty that it _is_ a memory, even if it’s not his.

“You gonna talk to him?”

Quentin makes a garbled sound, throwing an arm over his face. “Ask me again in the morning?”

“You betcha,” she says, cheeks dimpling. “Wanna sleep over?”

“I’m okay, I think. Thanks, though.” Quentin hugs her goodnight, sliding out of Julia’s bed and into his own. His head is crammed full of newly coloured-in memories; fuck, there is a _lot_ of shit whirring around in there, but somehow Quentin feels lighter than he has in a very long time.

*

A few days after their epic shopping spree, Margo insists that Eliot lose the ‘grief beard’ as she very rudely puts it, before setting the royal barbers on him. They trim his hair, too, which even Eliot can admit is long overdue. Margo’s right. Quentin’s not dead anymore, and it’s time to start acting like it.

When his grief-over is complete, Margo tilts his chin to inspect him, her sharp eyes filling him with warmth. “Okay,” she says finally, “if Q doesn’t wanna bone down with this guy—” inexplicably, she raises two finger guns behind him in the mirror in an adorably dorky gesture that he’s pretty sure she picked up from Hoberman—“we’re all doomed.”

“I still don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Please, you two totally have heart-eyed boners for each other.” Margo snorts loudly, and then at Eliot’s glare, amends to say, “Oh, fine, yours is the only confirmed heart-eyed boner. Quentin’s remains alleged until further notice. Happy?”

Eliot pinches the bridge of his nose and declines further comment, allowing Margo to fuss with his hair while a storm of nerves and potential brews inside him.

He’s going to talk to Quentin. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s my fault. I should’ve waited to talk to you, it was way too soon. I was just, like, trying for some grand gesture, you know?”_
> 
> _Uh. No. Quentin does not fucking know._
> 
> _“What are you talking about?” Quentin asks carefully, his heart already unspooling._
> 
>  _“Are we really doing this?” Eliot’s voice and eyes both so damn soft it makes Quentin’s chest ache. He’s so fucking_ beautiful _, it’s unfair._
> 
> _“I don’t know. I don’t know what this is.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of part three, and also my favourite chapter, so I hope you like it. Possibly also the fastest I've ever updated ;) I was pretty excited to get here - HUGE thanks to Rubick and hoko_onchi, I would never have made it this far without you guys! And to everyone who has commented or left kudos, I appreciate them all SO MUCH <3

Quentin’s not expecting Eliot’s text, nor the way his heart jumps when he receives it. They haven’t hung out for about a week or so, and thus far have always made plans at least a day in advance. Today, though, Eliot wants to know if he’s free this afternoon, and Quentin’s chest floods with warmth at the thought of seeing him. He googles the café Eliot’s suggested, perking up even more when he sees that it’s part of a queer-owned bookstore. Eliot has clearly put thought into choosing where to meet, and he can’t help but wonder if this is meant to be a date. Which, it isn’t. Because if Eliot were to ask him on a date, Quentin’s pretty damn sure he’d know it. 

Despite his better judgement, if he even possesses such a thing, it’s clearly _Quentin_ who wants this to be a date. Sighing and scrolling through Yelp photos, he half-consciously decides to make an effort, which for him equates to a soft, light grey button down to go with his smarter-than-usual-thanks-to-Julia black jeans. He ties his hair back, grateful that it’s actually clean. He nods to himself in the mirror, feeling silly for overthinking it. With a deep breath, he ventures out into the city, and when he arrives at the café, Eliot’s grin is staggering—it almost makes him want to look over his shoulder to check out the person behind him who Eliot’s so excited to see. It’s always been like this, with Eliot so inexplicably thrilled to see him, and Quentin, thrilled in turn to be noticed by someone as magnetic as Eliot.

“Hey,” Quentin says, even more acutely aware of his body than usual as they hug, certain that the revelations of the past few days must be written all over his face. But Eliot just smiles, leading the way inside. Quentin follows him to a table near a window in the corner, bathed in the glow of the late afternoon sun. A waitress comes over right away, and Quentin barely looks at the menu, ordering some diet soda and the first vaguely appetising thing he spots, which is a toasted chicken sandwich. Eliot seems unusually nervous, forefinger and thumb tapping in a nervous tic Quentin’s never seen before as he orders a coffee and kale salad. The reason behind Eliot’s nerves quickly becomes clear.

“So, it’s not a—” Eliot says, then starts again. “I actually haven’t been drinking lately. Until the wine we had together, I’d been sober since I, you know. Woke up. From the monster,” he adds unnecessarily, as though either of them need reminding.

Quentin feels an instant flush of guilt. “Oh, shit, was that like—”

“It’s fine,” Eliot says quickly. “I wanted to, I thought it was okay to drink casually again. Socially. In the name of actual fun, instead of an early grave, you know? And maybe one day it’ll be okay again, but right now, it’s not a good idea.”

“Yeah, given my meds and mental health right now, I probably shouldn’t be drinking either. So, I guess we’re in the same boat, huh. Or, at least, you know, adjacent boats charting similar but, um, different courses.”

Eliot gives him a small smile. “Everything’s changed—this place, I mean. Margo used to bring me here, they made these waffles she likes, but I didn’t see them on the menu. The bookstore looks the same, though. I thought you might like it here.”

Quentin nods, returning Eliot’s smile, suddenly feeling shy. He does like it here; he likes the jumbled stacks of books, how it appears at first to be one of those places where everything is tossed into disorganised piles you have to rummage through to find hidden gems, but is actually characterised by a far more orderly chaos, with stacks and jumbles divided by genre. Quentin makes a note to check out the queer fantasy section he’s spotted tucked away near the back. Most of all, he likes that Eliot had chosen the store with him in mind. That Margo had shared this place with Eliot, who in turn wanted to share it with him; a thread through space and time connecting Eliot to the two people who love him most of all. 

They’ve never actually done this. Like, been out in the city together—apart from the time Eliot dragged him to Julia’s safe house. And look how well _that_ turned out. But here they are, sitting opposite each other at a table, surrounded by other people at other tables, all doing the same thing. Normal people stuff. It’s nice. The hipster fairy lights are giving the whole place a kind of romantic ambience, and honestly, Eliot’s always been stupidly attractive, but today he looks incredible. Hair falling in wild curls, a dark smudge of eyeliner across his lids, and a plum-black shirt that’s open at the collar, exposing an enticing sliver of his chest. Shit. What did he literally just say to Julia about letting go of people who rejected him? It’s a little hard, though, when Eliot shows up looking like _this_.

“Hey, you look, um, really good,” he blurts out, eyes darting away from Eliot, then back again as though magnetised. “Your hair, I mean. You cut your hair.” Fuck.

Eliot’s hands still and he fixes Quentin with a heated look, a slow smile spreading across his face that sets Quentin alight with warmth and promise. How does being around him feel so fucking _good_?

“Thanks, Q.” Eliot’s looking at Quentin through his lashes, and, oh god, he doesn’t know where he’s going to shove all these feelings when Eliot kindly but inevitably shuts him down, but he wants to know, once and for all, even if it breaks him in two. Given how brittle he’s been feeling lately, it’s not an idle concern. Which _should_ give him pause, but instead, Quentin’s readying himself to say—something. He doesn’t know what, exactly, but he knows it has to be now, before he loses his nerve.

Which is exactly when the food arrives. Quentin’s stomach instantly shrinks; the last thing he wants to do is eat, but he takes a reluctant bite anyway. Eliot is happy with his salad at least, though his earlier nerves don’t seem quite settled. Quentin frowns at his plate. Eliot texted him out of nowhere, arrived all dressed up, seems nervous. Which, yeah. Maybe he was just passing and knew Quentin would be free. His nerves are easily explained by the whole not drinking thing. And it’s hardly unusual for Eliot to look impeccably gorgeous, though Quentin has to admit that Eliot’s seemed rough around the edges in a way he hadn’t quite realised until seeing him put together like this again.

Eliot puts his fork down; Quentin takes a deep breath. They speak at the same time: “Hey, so—” and both laugh.

“You go,” Eliot says, sipping his coffee.

Quentin goes, shoving the words out before he can think better of it: “Okay, I know this is a weird thing to bring up, but I have to know. When I first came back, you were trying to tell me something, I think? And it’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it anymore, but, well. I wasn’t in a great place back then. I don’t think I really knew what was happening or how to process anything you were saying. I think I said something to you, about not being able to feel things? Which, um, I meant in a literal-no-feelings at all kind of way, not in a—well.”

Eliot’s expression is blank, and Quentin falters, lets his sentence hang there, embarrassed by how quickly the words rushed from his mouth, what those words might imply, and that he might’ve just set himself up to be rejected by Eliot yet again. He hadn’t come here planning to say any of this shit. He’d told Julia he _wasn’t_ going to bring it up with Eliot, so what the fuck is he doing?

“You,” Eliot starts. He spreads his hands over the table, looking uncomfortable. “Right.” Quentin’s chest tightens. “Okay, shit.”

“Sorry,” Quentin says quickly, “I shouldn’t have—”

“No!” Eliot says, a little too forcefully. “No, Q, it’s my fault. I should’ve waited to talk to you, it was way too soon. I was just, like, trying for some grand gesture, you know?”

Uh. No. Quentin does not fucking know.

“What are you talking about?” Quentin asks carefully, his heart already unspooling.

“Are we really doing this?” Eliot’s voice and eyes both so damn soft it makes Quentin’s chest ache. He’s so fucking _beautiful_ , it’s unfair.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what this is.”

Eliot’s gaze becomes startlingly intense, eyes dark and fixed on Quentin’s. “Let’s get out of here, okay?”

“Uh, okay.” They pay up, and it’s getting busier now anyway, so Quentin’s glad to be heading away from the hum of activity and stepping out into the languid heat of the summer evening. Rushing to keep up with Eliot’s long strides, Quentin’s not sure what to make of this sudden field trip, or the strange frequency of Eliot’s energy right now, fierce and a little volatile, like something’s roiling in his veins.

“Sorry—I may have been a little dramatic back there.” Eliot slows his gait so Quentin can fall in step with him.

“Dramatic, huh? You?”

“Can it, Coldwater.” Eliot’s fond eye roll makes Quentin’s stomach drop pleasurably. “I’m working up to something, okay?”

“Really?” says Quentin, equally fond. “Couldn’t tell.”

The fact that Eliot doesn’t even respond to this means he’s probably working up to something big, which is honestly kinda nerve-wracking. He risks a sidelong glance at Eliot; the sun’s shining vivid and golden behind him, long curls spilling over his forehead, his cheekbones sharp and lovely.

In a shock of newly saturated colour, Quentin remembers what it was like to love Eliot. And to be rejected by him. And god, the rejection had hurt—so fucking much, perhaps more than he’d ever admitted to himself until now—but it hadn’t broken him. Or them—not as friends, anyway. Quentin savours this realisation as they walk a while in fine-spun silence, close but not quite touching, until Eliot slides a casual arm around his shoulders, sending sparks down Quentin’s spine. They’re by the Hudson now, and Eliot leads them to a quiet spot half-shaded by the trees. Once they’ve sat down, Eliot doesn’t prevaricate, a familiar tension creasing his jaw as he speaks.

“Can we start again? That conversation, after you came back. If you want to hear it, I’d like to tell you properly. I mean, I had it all written out last time, so you’ll have to be patient with me.”

“You did?”

Eliot nods, looking utterly pained by the admission.

“Wow, you’re _such_ a nerd,” Quentin says, delighted, and Eliot gives him a light shoulder barge.

“Shut it, you. All the greatest speeches are written from the heart.”

“Oh, it’s a speech, is it?” Quentin laughs. He ducks his head and gestures for Eliot to continue, but his heart is juddering like a reluctant engine. Is this really what he wants? What the fuck even _is_ this? Eliot has apparently had enough on his mind that he’d been compelled to write it down; a mundane enough act, but one so revealing that Quentin can’t quite picture him doing it. Is he gearing up to apologise for _not when we have a choice_? For going from _that wasn’t us_ , to fucking Quentin with such desperate tenderness, to bolting out into the night? Does Eliot even know he’d broken Quentin’s heart? Probably not, since Quentin himself has only come to that revelation over these last few days.

“Okay. You better get comfy, it’s gonna be a long one. Fuck. Here goes.” Eliot sits up straight, visibly steeling himself, and Quentin’s heart quickens. “So, when I was locked in my mind palace, I had a lot of time to, you know, dwell. I was forced to actually—spent a lot of time skulking around the darkest corners of my mind, haunted by my deepest regrets, et cetera—because I needed to find a door. To let you know I was in there.”

“Proof of concept,” says Quentin slowly, then wishes he hadn’t. “Right, I—” he swallows his long-held shame about having said those words— “Sorry. Go on.”

“Proof of concept,” Eliot repeats. “Exactly.” Quentin can see the effort it’s taking him, the abject fear holding the long lines of his body taut. He wants to tell Eliot that it’s okay, that he doesn’t have to do this, but then, that’s exactly what Quentin already told him once, even if he didn’t mean to.

“Well, to cut the long harrowing story short, the door was hidden inside my most repressed and traumatic memory. Something buried deep, the thing I was most afraid to look at.”

“Jesus. That’s brutal.”

Eliot smiles, quick and hard. “Hm, it was a very amusing trip down memory lane trying to find the right one, let me tell you.”

Early in their friendship, Eliot told him that he’d hit his high school bully with a bus. More recently, Eliot told him about Mike. And then there are tragic, offhanded snippets Eliot used to drop into conversation with a studied carelessness that exasperated Quentin as much as it made his heart ache—about Eliot’s upbringing, his dad, his whole shitty childhood—and Quentin feels horribly sad for him having to battle all of this alone, not knowing if he’d ever make it out.

But Eliot had made it out. They both had. By some miracle or several, they’re together, the sun velvet-thick on their skin, and no matter what Eliot says next, no matter any darkness the future might hold—Quentin’s glad to be here, now. With Eliot.

“Q.” Eliot pales, features skewed by a deep unease. He looks like a fucking painting; soft curls spilling off the canvas darkly. The pink crook of his mouth, glossy light reflecting hazel-green eyes, the delicate flecks of his lashes. “I’m just so—it’s stupid, honestly, I’m like some swooning fairy tale maiden, here—” he grabs Quentin’s hand and presses it to his heart, pulsing and radiating heat; Quentin can feel the rise and fall of his chest in quick, anxious breaths. He wants to intervene, save Eliot from himself, but Quentin braces his nerves and lets him talk. He brings his gaze to meet Eliot’s in what he hopes is an encouraging way, and not an intense too-much-eye-contact way. What he sees floors him. Quentin has never seen Eliot look quite so—exposed is the only word that comes to mind, like something precious is being unearthed right before his eyes.

“I’m scared. Like I was in the throne room that day.”

“Oh,” says Quentin, shocked, and then surprised by the magnitude of the shock, how sharp it feels cutting a line ragged from his gut to his throat.

Inevitably, this is where they’ve always been headed. Since the bar—fuck, no, since way before then. Maybe since they left that day. Separately, they’d left, Quentin with a forced nonchalance that even now makes his heart stiffen in defence of all he’s lost, then and since.

Back to the throne room. Quentin’s scared now, too.

Eliot’s lips press together into a worried line. “What you said to me—it was such a brave thing you did.”

“Don’t.” Throat heavy, Quentin shakes his head. This isn’t what he expected.

Eliot looks startled, as though he hadn’t anticipated a rebuttal. He wouldn’t, though, would he? When Eliot speaks, the world listens. Fuck, Quentin’s not ready for any of this, should never have brought it up.

“I just mean—”

“That’s not what I want to fucking hear, okay?” The words scrape out of him with alarming fury.

“Okay, shit—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Eliot’s eyes widen dramatically, making him look very young, even with the newly and neatly trimmed beard. Quentin thinks about pressing his face against all that stubble, how harsh it would feel, if the scrape of it might abate his fury. It would—the press of Eliot against him. It would.

He takes in the haircut, the carefully smudged eyeliner—the whisper of hope written in uneven lines across his face. Eliot dressed up for this, came here with a purpose much like Quentin’s own. Why does that make him feel so jagged and sharp-edged, like a rock awaiting the inexorable crash of the waves? Furious, he’s fucking _furious_ — “No. I’m sorry, I just. Where are you going with this? I can’t—I can’t do all of this again with you.”

Quentin doesn’t want to go back to the throne room. But had he ever really left? One foot in the door, hanging on in case Eliot changed his mind. Fucking pathetic. He shuffles to sit on his hands so he can give Eliot the attention he deserves.

“I’m trying to tell you—look, I was terrified, back then. I didn’t mean—or, I did. I thought I meant it, but.” Eliot’s face crumples for too long of a second before he pulls his features back in line. “What I said to you was shitty and cowardly, and it wasn’t anything to do with you, okay? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got capital-I issues going on over here. And, you know what? I’m not scared like I was then—it’s not like that at all. I’m scared now because there’s so much I want to say to you, and I don’t want to fuck it up this time.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Of course Quentin had noticed. Eliot’s fucking _issues_ were always colliding with his own. Will they forever be crashing through each other’s lives like this? They never could quite seem to converge without that stomach-swerving chaos—not here, in this world, in this timeline. Not intentionally and mutually, not without shame, regret and shouldn’t haves; so many mistakes that surely can’t add up to anything worth learning from, because of course he should never have slept with Eliot, and he shouldn’t look at him either. Not the way he wants to, the way he knows he always did, even when Alice was right there, sharp-eyed and silent, watching Quentin want things he couldn’t have.

Quentin never has been very good at stopping himself from wanting.

Despite all of this, Quentin wants to say _it’s okay, you don’t need to do this_ , but actually, maybe Eliot does need to do this, maybe _Quentin_ needs him to. Mouth running dry, he asks, “What do you want to say?”

Eliot takes a breath, takes Quentin’s hand in his.

“I went back to every painful, awful thing I’ve ever tried to pretend didn’t happen to me, and every terrible, shameful thing I’ve ever done to someone I care about.”

He looks at Quentin like he’s running out of air.

“When it came down to it, none of that other shit mattered. The thing I couldn’t face was you. Even the slightest possibility of you—” Eliot grimaces, as though repulsed by whatever he’d been about to say. His eyes flutter closed for a long cascading moment, allowing the full weight of Quentin’s gaze to descend upon him for a few dazed seconds—the sharp ache of his cheekbone as he draws breath—before Eliot opens his eyes and continues.

“You went out on a fucking limb that day, and I couldn’t handle it. So, that’s what I regret most, is what I said to you that day. That’s what I had to relive to get to the door, to get back to you and tell you I was still alive in there.”

Quentin drops his eyes, speechless. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Not this. He’s not an idiot—he sees how Eliot looks at him, sees the regret and the grief and how beautiful he is in this stupid shirt he picked out to come and tell Quentin—what, exactly?

“Are you—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I replayed that day in the throne room, and—” A faint smile plays over Eliot’s lips. “I kissed you,” he says quietly, “and broke free for those few seconds, and then I was back in my own body for real and you were fucking dead.” His jaw clenches and he swallows, hard, Adam’s apple dipping in his throat. “It was bad enough I wasted all that time.” His voice falls apart, and Quentin squeezes his hand, angry with Eliot, so fucking furious without quite knowing all the reasons why but needing still to offer him some small comfort. “I finally admitted it to myself, and you were _gone_.”

“El—”

“Just let me do this,” Eliot says, soft and urgent and too lovely for words, “okay?”

Quentin nods helplessly, unable to deny him.

“And now, you’re back, and it turns out I’m still me, still carrying all the years I’ve spent turning my self-loathing into the ironically indifferent façade you see cracked open before you.” His mouth, his beautiful fucking mouth twitches into an almost-smile. “Oh, and I’m a diagnosed quote-un-quote emotional wreck and—I think I might be an alcoholic, actually? I don’t know, but I’ve been, ugh. Working on it. On all my shit. Don’t even, it’s so gross, and it’s a fucking agonising process, let me tell you.”

It’s truly a shock to hear Eliot describe himself as an alcoholic, a word which somehow Quentin has never applied to him, and still can’t quite make fit, even despite how quickly it’d become obvious after meeting Eliot that he was someone who drank and smoked and drugged his problems and his feelings into submission. Maybe that’s what an alcoholic is; Quentin doesn’t fucking know. But even more shocking is hearing Eliot unironically say things like ‘working on my shit’. It’s honestly a little much for Quentin to take.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Eliot’s said so much, he said _I kissed you_ , which, yeah, but even so, there’s something Quentin’s not clear about, doesn’t quite want to ask—

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Eliot says quickly. “I just thought you deserved to know.”

The sun cuts a hazy shadow across Eliot’s face, and Quentin remembers that yes, being rejected by Eliot had hurt, and no, it hadn’t broken him, but it had changed him. Hardened him into the person he’d thought the quest wanted him to be, the person he’d thought _he_ wanted to be. But that’d all been bullshit: the quest was bullshit, magic is bullshit. And no, Eliot’s rejection hadn’t broken their friendship, but that too has changed to the point where Quentin doesn’t know how to get back to the banter and the sunshine, even though he desperately wants to, had been there only moments ago.

“Right,” Quentin says numbly, realising it’s his turn to speak. But Eliot keeps talking, as though the very fact of having started has opened a space for his heart to pour out interminably.

“Honestly, just to talk about this is really—” Eliot gives a wild sort of laugh, careless hand raking through his perfectly styled curls—“okay, so, it’s terrifying, and my heart feels like I’ve wrenched it in two, but it’s _good_ , Q, it’s so fucking good to talk to you about this, finally.”

“It, uh. It is?” Quentin had no idea these words were living inside Eliot. The way he’s talking, all of this has been on his mind and unsaid for a very long time. But then, there have always been so many things they’ve never quite talked about. So why the fuck is Eliot doing this right the fuck now? He said he’s an alcoholic, said he’d written everything down. Is this extended soliloquy a theatre kid’s dramatic rendering of an amends letter?

“I’m sorry, Quentin. I’m sorry about everything, and that it’s taken me so long to become un-fucked-up-enough to tell you.”

One corner of Quentin’s mouth pulls into a smile. “That’s okay, I’m still a pretty major fuck up, so.” And suddenly, he’s right back where he wants to be; it’s that easy.

“Yeah, no kidding,” says Eliot, wry smile softening the sentiment.

“Okay, I don’t think you’re meant to agree,” Quentin complains, surprising himself by giving Eliot a friendly jab in the ribs. They’re friends, after all, aren’t they?

“C’mon, Q, you know I’m not that good a liar.” Eliot’s grin is sharp and warm, and Quentin’s so glad to have him back. But, wait. Isn’t he? That good a liar? Quentin’s head whirls. Crashes, up against the warmth of Eliot’s grin, and the ambiguity of a throwaway line that shouldn’t have the power to put everything he’s said thus far into question, but somehow manages to do it anyway because it’s got jammed between Quentin’s ribs and he can’t let it go. “Aren’t you?” Quentin’s not sure what he’s grasping at, only certain that he has to try. Eliot’s face crumples again, and this time, he can’t seem to wrench it all back into place. It’s awful to see, and part of Quentin _likes_ it, which is _worse_. When he’d first come back, Quentin didn’t feel anything about the major events prior to his death. Like watching a movie, he’d told Julia. Now, he has _all_ the feelings. Too many fucking feelings splitting him open, visceral and messy and intense. So, yeah. It’s not pretty, but it sure as hell is good to know that he wasn’t the only one who felt like shit about what happened in the throne room. “I felt like such a fucking idiot after what I said to you that day.”

“You’re not,” Eliot says hoarsely. “Not an idiot at all. I’m so fucking—”

“ _Don’t_.”

Quentin recoils from the unexpected volume of his own voice. Eliot backs off. “You found that door,” Quentin says, and trying to think it through is like trying to unpick stitching that’s been too tightly pulled. “And you, you—” _I kissed you._ “What the fuck, Eliot?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop it. Stop doing that. I don’t want you to apologise, I want to fucking _understand_ , because I don’t get it at all. You found a door, you—I wondered, you know, when you broke through,” he says, breathing harshly, swerving away from _I kissed you_. “I wondered why you said that.”

“Well, now you know,” Eliot says, shaky, not quite looking at him.

Except Quentin doesn’t know. In fact, he’s not certain of anything Eliot’s just said. _I kissed you_ should be self-explanatory, but it’s not, because none of this is. There’s the question too of what exactly Eliot keeps apologising for. And the fact that Quentin’s brain is in serious danger of imploding. “Look. Back then, I was… I was hurt, sure. But I don’t fucking want you to apologise for, for not wanting to—” Quentin can’t go through with it, can’t say _for not wanting to be with me_.

Eliot’s looking at him curiously. “That’s not—” He stops, hesitation knitting his brow. “That’s _not_ what I’m apologising for. I’m trying to say—”

“I just need to ask you,” Quentin interrupts, “I need to—”

“Anything,” says Eliot instantly, and Quentin believes that he means it.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about? The door? You kissed me? What—”

Eliot’s face dawns with understanding. “Oh. Oh, shit. I meant. I was trying to say.” He reaches out as if to touch Quentin’s face, then seems to think better of it, hand dropping to his lap. “I kissed you, in my mind palace memory, because that’s what I should have done the first time around.”

“What the fuck, Eliot,” Quentin repeats blankly, too many emotions competing and cancelling each other out to come up with anything else.

“I know,” Eliot says miserably. “I know how much I fucked up, okay?”

And that’s just another way of apologising, but Quentin allows it. All this time he’s thought—well, no. Not all this time. Because for months now, Quentin hasn’t thought of any of this at all, not until Eliot crashed into him again and struck everything loose.

This is as close as Eliot’ll get to saying it. And it’s closer than Quentin had thought possible, honestly. _You deserve to be with someone who’s willing to actually say it out loud_. Julia’s right. She usually is. Though Quentin has to wonder if _why the fuck not?_ truly counts as saying it out loud. At the time it’d felt like baring his soul, but it was transparently only a way of guarding his heart—maybe rightly so, given, well, everything. But still. Quentin can see why Eliot wasn’t exactly swept off his feet. 

Eliot’s hand jolts his knee. “When I said I wasn’t asking you for anything, I meant, I mean. I don’t want to pressure you. And if you don’t want—fuck. Sorry.” 

_Julia’s right, Julia’s right, Julia’s right._ She is, but it slices both ways. “You should know that what I want hasn’t changed. I could’ve probably said a few things differently myself, but—well. You should ask me.”

Eliot turns helplessly to face Quentin. “Okay, good, because I didn’t mean it. I was, I _am_ asking…”

“What? What are you asking?”

“I’m saying, you and me, do you want to give it a shot?”

Eliot looks like a bomb that’s just gone off, and before Quentin knows what the hell he’s doing, he’s leaning over and kissing him. Just lightly, just pressing their lips together, just enough to answer the question Eliot’s finally asking.

“Quentin,” says Eliot, stunned. “Are you—”

He’s never been surer of anything, daunted but thrilled that he can finally look at Eliot like he’s always wanted to: with frank and open hunger. With desire.

Eliot’s beautiful fucking mouth curls into a slow hint of a smile, and he slides his hand around the back of Quentin’s neck; they’re kissing properly now, deep and soft and time-stopping. It’s almost too much, Eliot’s mouth on his, Eliot’s hand steady at his nape, thumb tracing lazy, maddening circles behind his ear. There’s a faint haze of a memory; Eliot kissing him like this, the slow thrill of it building in Quentin’s spine and making him shiver. But the reality of Eliot, here and now, is so much better than any memory could be. This is everything he’s wanted for so long, everything he’s forgotten how to want.

When they break apart, breathless, Quentin says, “Just so we’re clear, yes. I am. Sure. If that’s what you were asking. I want—this.”

“Just so we’re clear—” Eliot’s fingers tangle in Quentin’s hair and it feels so fucking _right_ — “I want you.” Quentin’s mouth drops open, the echo of Eliot’s words staggering through him. “If you can forgive me for messing it up the first time around, and oh, for about a million other things in between. I said I owed you a series of apologies and I was _not_ joking about that.”

Last vestiges of anger now dissolving like a drop of dark ink into the ocean, Quentin can’t stop himself from smiling. “That’s what you were apologising for? You— messed it up? In the throne room?”

“Well, yeah. And after, too. Sleeping with you, and—shit. I don’t want to run away from the things I—” Eliot takes a rapid breath— “from the things I want. From you. Not again, not after what it cost us both.”

Quentin looks at him, awestruck. He can’t even begin to think about everything that happened after the throne room—but Eliot’s put it out there; it’s on the table. They’ve got time. 

“Are you gonna let me say sorry now, for being such a dick?” Eliot’s smile is the bright, teasing spark before a bonfire goes up in flames.

“Well, I guess I don’t want to ruin your big speech, and all,” Quentin says with an answering smile and an eye roll for good measure.

“Mm, the apology is essential, messes up the whole structure without it.”

“In that case, I guess, uh. Thanks. For saying all of that. Sorry, I’m still kinda processing some of it.”

“That’s okay. It was a lot, I know. And I hate to say it, but there’s plenty more where that came from. But thanks for giving me the chance to get started on the grand tour of my utmost shame and regret.” They pause to cast quiet glances at each other, and Quentin’s wondering if maybe they’ll kiss some more, but first, really, he has to say something. “So, you just talked a whole bunch about your feelings, and stuff.”

Eliot shrugs, as though big heartfelt speeches are entirely in character for him. “What can I say? I’m lucky to be blessed with such high levels of emotional intelligence.”

Quentin snorts. “Oh, wow. Okay. Yeah, no offence, but what the fuck happened to you? I might be in genuine shock right now.”

“Well, I suppose it was going to come out sooner or later.” He pauses, clearly for effect, and Quentin quirks an eyebrow to hurry him along. “Fine. So, I might have been going to—” his voice lowers dramatically— “therapy.”

Caught once again by Eliot’s capacity to surprise him, Quentin laughs. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

“Okay, it’s not _that_ funny,” Eliot says as Quentin’s shoulders begin to shake.

“No, it really is, though? Just, of all the people I’ve ever known, you’re like, probably the one who needs therapy the most.”

Eliot rolls his eyes but doesn’t look truly offended. “Yeah, that’s some real comedy gold you’re sitting on, there.”

Still laughing, Quentin realises something that ignites his frustration all over again. “Okay, but did I really have to die for you to start giving a shit about yourself?”

Eliot’s smiling mouth opens and freezes as he thinks better of whatever he was about to say.

“That’s a yes.”

When Eliot visibly braces himself, Quentin sighs. “That’s really fucked up, El. You know that, right?”

“It may have come up, oh, several hundred times or so. But it wasn’t just that, okay? A lot of shit has happened in my life that’s forced me into therapy, not just your death.”

Quentin is relieved, then embarrassed at having thought so highly of himself, and both feelings are immediately replaced by resentment at being only one of many things to have fucked Eliot up so badly he requires professional help to sort through the wreckage of his psyche. The thought in itself is fucked up, and Quentin doesn’t know how to process it so just puts it in the queue to buffer behind everything else.

“I just… I can’t imagine you in therapy.”

“Good. Don’t. It’s awful.”

“All of this is… actually kind of a lot.”

Quentin hadn’t meant it all that seriously, though it truly is a lot, but Eliot gives him a soft look. “Hey, you can take whatever time you need.”

Instantly, Quentin knows that’s precisely what he _doesn’t_ want. “No,” he says, “no more time.” He pulls Eliot into a long, slow kiss, this time with the promise of so much more to come. Eliot makes a soft, startled sound into his mouth and seems stunned into some kind of reverie, letting Quentin touch him everywhere he can without breaking public indecency laws; hands trailing hot over Eliot’s shoulders, curling in his hair and over the stubble of his jaw. “Eliot,” he whispers, “you’re really here, you’re _here_ —” The very fact of him makes Quentin breathless, makes him want things he hasn’t even been able to contemplate for such a long time.

Quentin presses his lips to Eliot’s neck, teeth grazing below his ear, and Eliot’s head tips back as he groans, a small rough sound, almost like he can’t help it. “God, Q.” He sounds dazed, and Quentin thinks, _I did that. I made him sound like that. Eliot. I did that to Eliot_ , and he wants to do so much more.

It bursts open like a heavy storm, the enormity of the events that have led them here. The time key. The monster. Every shitty thought Quentin’s had these last few months about wanting to lie down and never get back up again. Everything Eliot’s been through, everything they still have to talk about; it all unspools in Quentin’s chest like a reel of forgotten film. He thinks about what Eliot had said earlier, about not drinking right now. Neither of them are under any kind of influence; no booze or emotion hangover, no threat bearing down on them, no puzzles to solve. No distractions, nothing else but the two of them—well, and their assorted flavours of emotional and psychological bullshit. But that’s not going anywhere fast. Eliot’s smile is bright and open, and he seems to regain his composure—a shame, for Quentin had enjoyed seeing him a little flustered. But, well. There’s plenty of time for that sort of thing now, isn’t there? Dizzying warmth suffuses his chest with the possibilities that lie ahead. Just the two of them. No more fucking around. Or, well. Quentin laughs faintly, a ringing in his ears, mouth dry as he thinks about putting his hands under Eliot’s shirt.

It’s taken them so long to reach this moment.

“Julia’s at Kady’s tonight.” He looks sideways at Eliot, neither of them able to stop grinning at each other.

“Mm, is that so?”

“Yeah, that means, you know. My place is empty.”

Eliot smirks. “Why, Quentin Coldwater. Are you suggesting we continue this conversation somewhere more private?”

“No more talking. No more time. No more dancing around this,” Quentin says firmly. “I’ve waited long enough. Haven’t you?”

The raw hunger in Eliot’s answering gaze sends shockwaves through him. “Fuck,” he says, tugging at Quentin’s hand. “Let’s go.”

*

The second they’re inside Quentin’s bedroom, Eliot has him pushed up against the door. Everything is full of promise, urgent and tender all at once; slow kisses and hands sliding everywhere they can reach. He’s hardly able to believe it’s happening, that he’s here, with Quentin’s mouth moving so softly against his, their hips slotting together, both of them gasping. The first touch on his bare stomach has Eliot weak at the knees; it’s everything he’s been wanting, everything he thought he’d lost.

Eliot drops his brow to Quentin’s. Time slows all around them like a dream. They sway gently, lips parted, drinking each other in. “Q,” he whispers. They’re pressed so close, the frequency builds and builds, their lips joining again and again. “God, Q…” He slides a hand around to the back of his neck, watches Quentin’s eyes flutter.

“Take this off,” Quentin mutters, tugging at the hem of his shirt with an edge of impatience, and Eliot does, his body so highly sensitised that the push of Quentin’s thumbs into the hollow of his hip bones makes him ache.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Eliot whispers, reverent. He kisses hungrily along the line of his jaw. Teeth at his neck; a soft bite that wrenches Quentin’s mouth open on a gasp. Eliot can’t stop looking at him, can’t help it—he’s _alive_ and he’s tugging gently at Eliot’s hair, making him moan, hands running feverish over his naked chest and it’s so, it’s so _good_ , but it’s also—it’s a lot. It’s too many fucking feelings, aching, consuming and remaking him, it’s his hammering heart; he’s burning up, too hot, too much, and he can’t, he _wants_ —he shouldn’t. Oh, fuck. He knows, knows exactly what’s about to, what’s happening—

“Q,” he gasps, as the raw intensity of his magic splinters, sparks skittering at his fingertips—shit, shit, Eliot stumbles back, afraid, so afraid of hurting him again. “Fuck, Q, are you—”

Eyes wide, that lovely mouth pink and kissed open, Quentin asks what’s wrong, and Eliot can’t—he can’t say, backing up even further, putting more distance between them while he tries to remember the breathing exercises Laura taught him, and wow, therapy is really _not_ what Eliot wants to be thinking about right now while he’s half-hard and Quentin’s right fucking there, just beyond his grasp as ever, rumpled and gorgeous and waiting for an explanation.

“Sorry.” Another wholly inadequate apology. Quentin’s looking at him with something like worry, still backed up against the door, skin deliciously flushed and his hair sticking out adorably on one side, and god, what is _wrong_ with him?

“Hey, no, El. It’s fine. Is it your magic again?”

Eliot nods, and Quentin pushes away from the door, a slight movement, as though Eliot’s a frightened animal. “Can I?” he asks, reaching out. Eliot wants and maybe he shouldn’t, but he nods again, and Quentin’s arms circle him, not too tightly, hands resting loose at the small of his back.

“You can tell me,” Quentin says. “If you want to.”

The mad flutter of a bird’s wings swooping low and dizzy in his belly; those soft eyes are seeing more of Eliot than anyone ever has. And, fuck, but Eliot wants Quentin’s eyes on him. Wants him to see everything and never turn his gaze. “Ah, well.” Eliot pretty much has to tell him, he knows, but what he doesn’t know is how. This has obviously never happened before, and it’s not exactly failure to rise, but to Eliot’s mind perhaps even more embarrassing. Jesus, one more fucking thing ruined by his broken magic, his useless feelings—

He’s spiralling.

 _It’s okay to tell other people how you’re feeling_. Eliot doesn’t fucking know how he’s feeling, doesn’t actually know, for once, what he might be holding back. Hands resting on Quentin’s shoulders, Eliot looks down at his own naked chest, at those strong arms wrapped around him. Feels the soft press of a hand curled protectively at the small of his back. They’re so close; the heat of Quentin’s body as intoxicating as it is petrifying. He meets Quentin’s worried eyes. “My magic, might, um.” He swallows. “It might go off again, that’s all.” Waiting for his reaction is agonising. It’s silly, really, it’s not like Quentin of all people is going to kick him out of bed for having _issues_. Not that they’ve even made it to the bed yet.

And of course, Quentin doesn’t. A curve of a smile and a light press of his hips, he says, “Not the only thing that’s gonna be going off—” and Eliot laughs, tension snapping in his chest, relief flooding between his ribs.

“Oh, yeah?” he manages, pushing forward to meet him, breath hitching from renewed arousal as much as the fear of another surge.

“Sorry,” Quentin says with a small grin that Eliot badly wants to press his mouth against. “Sorry. You were, like, trying to say something serious.”

“Don’t be.” Fingertips trailing so gently over Quentin’s neck and grazing his hair, cupping his face in both hands, he leans down and kisses him. “You’re perfect.”

That’s pretty much it, right there. Everything Eliot’s holding back. How he feels about Quentin. How much he wants. How much he—yeah. Eliot fucking loves him, is the thing. It flutters beneath his skin, prickling and pushing at his ribcage, the force of it thrilling and almost painful, and it’s—it’s not the right time to say it, not now. Too much. He’s already said—everything, he’s said everything. He doesn’t want to scare him off, though looking at Quentin right now, Eliot’s not sure that’d even be possible. But Laura had assured him he didn’t need to blurt out everything on his mind, that there are other ways to express his feelings.

 _Don’t hold back_.

He gathers Quentin close, nose burying in his hair. New shampoo, something citrusy and sweet with a hint of bergamot. It suits him. “I got caught in my head, that’s all,” he says into Quentin’s neck. “Well, not all. Caught in—you. My feelings for you.”

Quentin leans back. “I don’t understand.”

“I guess you could say I’m having some pretty intense feelings right now.” Eliot hates talking about his feelings, and he hates talking about his _condition_. But, it’s Q. “It’s, it can be—dangerous. Holding back stuff like that is one of the things that can screw up my magic.” He swallows thickly, trying not to cry, trying too hard to appear nonchalant.

“Like when you were at my apartment.”

“Yeah, they’re called surges.”

“You didn’t hurt me, you know,” Quentin says gently. “It was intense—but. It felt… good. It felt like you.”

Eliot’s head snaps up. “That’s not…” He dismisses it out of hand. That’s not how the surges work. That’s not how his _magic_ works. His magic is _dangerous,_ needs to be kept in line, kept under control—smashed glass, walls shuddering, flames spitting. “It’s never been like that before.”

Part of him is still terrified of Quentin, of the two of them together and everything it entails, and he wasn’t supposed to be afraid anymore, but he is, so horribly scared, and haltingly, he manages to get some semblance of this across to Quentin, whose brow smooths out the longer Eliot talks. At some point they sit on the edge of the bed, thighs pressed together, arms wrapped around each other. Eliot’s breathing slows, magic finally settling the fuck back down.

“Thank you,” Quentin says gently, “for telling me. And we don’t have to, you know, do anything—”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but the last thing Eliot wants is to stop. “Q,” he says roughly, thumb tracing over his cheekbone, “I want to do everything with you.”

“Oh,” says Quentin, a breathless sound pushed out of him. “Everything, huh?” One corner of his mouth pulls up into a half-smile that makes Eliot feel almost violent with wanting him. “Well, we should probably get started, in that case.” With an experimental hand to the centre of Eliot’s chest, Quentin pushes him back onto the bed and crawls over him. Eliot stares up in awe at Quentin’s shy caution that’s steeled by something dark stirring in his eyes, something raw and wanting as he mumbles, “And you should definitely kiss me now.”

“Fuck, yes.” Eliot’s breath catches. He spent nine desperate months (and twelve days, his brain supplies automatically, even now) grieving Quentin, and another nine thinking he missed his shot. That desperation he once thought might shatter him now fuels Eliot as he reaches up to capture Quentin’s lips, made graceless by the desire struck through him, the desire that’s sparking and lighting him up from the inside. His fingers tangle through Quentin’s hair, and he pulls, just lightly, Quentin going slack above him, a soft moan cracked from his throat.

“Fuck, El…”

With a team effort, they manage to haul Quentin’s shirt over his head. “God, you’re pretty,” Eliot says roughly, smoothing over his chest, knuckles brushing his nipples and making him gasp. He says it again and again: “You’re so pretty, baby,” and what he means is _you’re alive_. He can’t believe any of this is happening—that Quentin’s really here, that Quentin’s taking his hand and sucking a delicate kiss over the beat of his pulse, Eliot’s hips jerking up as his teeth press down. Quentin, emboldened, pins Eliot’s wrist loosely above his head and pushes their hips together clumsily, perfectly; Eliot’s never felt anything better than this slow, filthy grind, than the hard press of Quentin’s fingers cupping his jaw, bringing their lips together again and again, both of them groaning into the kiss.

Quentin can’t manage Eliot’s belt buckle one-handed, giving up, exasperated, caught somewhere between kissing Eliot and undressing him. Eliot feels wild, reaching up to find Quentin’s soft mouth, free hand dipping below his waistband, that tantalising stretch of skin—

“Need to get these off,” he pants, “all of it—” There’s a scramble while they pull ineffectually at each other’s clothes, laughing, until Eliot intervenes. Manoeuvring Quentin onto his back, his fingers are unusually awkward as he undresses them both—it’s been a long time since he slept with anyone, and besides, it’s never been like this, not for Eliot, who can’t remember the last time he had sex quite like this, if in fact he’s ever been so completely unravelled by another person before. He covers Quentin’s body with his own, sinking into him, both of them gasping low and rough as skin meets skin, Eliot stops trying to hold himself together, lets himself fall apart a little, thumb slipping over Quentin’s chin, kissing him with slow rapture.

The storm of his magic is like white noise under his skin, the disbelief that they’re really here and actually touching each other still staggering through him. Maybe he can’t say it now, maybe it’s not the right time (but how would Eliot know? How can he trust himself?), but he needs Quentin to know how wanted he is, how much Eliot—

Loves him. The very thought of loving Quentin, the man who’s strong and alive and squirming beautifully beneath him, and not the ghost of a memory he thought he’d never see again, makes something bitter and cold snake down his spine, tempered by Quentin’s hands, firm and lovely, smoothing over his back as if to banish such dark thoughts.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Eliot says, frantic, needing him to know, to fucking know— “I thought you were, you _were_ —”

“I know,” Quentin says quietly. “I fucking know.”

A sob catches in his throat, held there for now while their bodies press and tangle, and Eliot says, “I thought you hated me.” He hadn’t meant to. It might be the truth, but it’s not exactly the height of eroticism, is it? In Quentin’s words: what the fuck, Eliot?

Hips pushing up in a needy grind that makes Eliot’s cock ache to be inside him, Quentin’s head tips back; he groans with sheer want and frustration. “God. What are you—no. I couldn’t, I could never, not even—”

“Even when you should?”

Sitting back on his elbows, Quentin laughs, mouth open, wet where Eliot had kissed him. “Well, yeah, maybe.”

“You should’ve,” Eliot says, kissing along the slope of Quentin’s neck, “you should’ve hated me—” lips grazing the rise of his chest, his stomach, and lower still, raking his teeth sharp over Quentin’s hip bones and making him cry out, a cut-off gasp that sends a filthy-hot spark of arousal through Eliot’s body. “You were angry with me, though, weren’t you?”

Eliot doesn’t know where the hell this is coming from, why it’s coming out here, now, but Quentin laughs again, a half-delirious moan drawn out of him by the press of Eliot’s mouth, his teeth, Quentin’s face flushed so fiercely red as he says it. “Yeah, okay, I was—I was fucking furious. But I’m not—”

“Good,” Eliot murmurs, tonguing over the lovely curve of his hip. “That’s good.” He nips at the soft crease of his thighs, teasing and licking and holding him down with a firm grip.

“El… what the fuck are you doing?” His voice wrecked, a delicate fracture of impatience in it, and Eliot keeps going, keeps teasing, keeps talking, driven by something beyond himself, a dizzying car-crash of a thing that’s spiralling out of him.

“You’re still angry, though, aren’t you?”

He’s making these delightful, broken sounds, and Eliot keeps pushing: “Aren’t you?” and Quentin says, “ _Okay_ —yes, yeah, I am, but—”

“Good,” says Eliot, perversely satisfied. “You should be, you should be so fucking mad at me—”

“Jesus,” Quentin hisses, twisting in Eliot’s grip— “you’re so dramatic, I forgot that you’re like this—”

He doesn’t stop; doesn’t stop biting and kissing and shoving him down into the mattress. Quentin’s straining, dirty moans strung from his throat, hips pleading against Eliot’s palms, and it’s then, finally, that Eliot sinks his mouth down onto Quentin’s cock— “Oh, _fuck_ —” Quentin’s body snaps rigid with pleasure then collapses against the bed, hands clenching in the sheets as Eliot works him over, hot and wet and filthy; the most deliriously messy blow job he’s ever given in his life. Unburdened by any desire he once had to impress, to control, to pretend, and concerned only with wrenching more of those fevered groans out of him, Eliot takes and takes everything Quentin is willing to give him, sucking him with ravening need until Quentin’s hands scrabble mindlessly at Eliot’s shoulders. “Fuck—I’m gonna—” Quentin chokes out, and Eliot doesn’t stop. Takes him to the hilt. Lips dragging and tongue pressing. Quentin’s fingers gripping his hair, ears rushed with blood. Desire snapping its jaws; giving him everything, everything he has. Groaning, Quentin spills into his mouth, and Eliot takes it, takes his pleasure and swallows it down.

*

“What,” Quentin gasps, “the fuck?”

Eliot slides off him with something that might’ve at one time been a rakish grin but is now something altogether more open and raw. He kisses Quentin like he can’t get enough, tongue pushing into his mouth, slick and hot and— “I know, god—I don’t know what I’m _saying_ , but fuck, baby, you’re so—” Quentin groans his assent; he would agree to anything right now, would give Eliot anything he desires. He can’t remember ever feeling quite this good in his entire life, and though he knows it will end as all things must, there’s a thread of assurance hooked in his gut that tells him with great certainty he’ll get to have this again; this with Eliot, over and over.

Eliot’s cock nudges insistently between Quentin’s thighs, though Eliot himself is lazy, languid in his intensity. A shiver hazes through him at the thought of all the things they might do to one another. For now, they lie together, pressed close for long minutes. Eliot’s hips rock without hurry as he noses along Quentin’s jaw, nipping and sucking small kisses while Quentin whispers soft in his ear, “It’s okay, you know. I’m not—I’m not angry with you. Or, I am? But, not— I’m so much more—none of that comes close to how I feel about you, okay?”

Eliot’s eyes are wet, and Quentin kisses them. Cradles the back of his neck. Quentin is angry. But he doesn’t want to serve up his fury. Eliot doesn’t deserve it, deserves only the pleasure he’s been aching for, the pleasure Quentin knows he can give—fuck, all he wants is for Eliot to take whatever will make him feel good. He’s getting hard again already at the thought, and from Eliot’s mouth biting blunt along his collarbones, and from the look on Eliot’s face like he’s drowning and only Quentin can save him.

“I want—” Eliot’s eyes wild and bright as stars as he gazes down at Quentin with an untamed ferocity that leaves him shaken— “I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh god,” Quentin says, fervent and keen, sitting up in a daze. “God, yeah.” It’s unexpected, and he’s not sure why. A faint gloss of memory suggests they’d done this plenty of times, though Quentin sadly can’t recall the particulars of it. He wants—fuck, there’s so much he wants.

“How do you want to—?”

“Over here, sit up a bit more,” Eliot says, pushing Quentin back against the headboard and pinning his hips to the bed. He presses his lips tenderly to Quentin’s forehead, like he’s done a thousand times, but also nothing like those times at all because then Eliot grips his chin between thumb and forefinger and it’s so fucking hot that Quentin loses his breath, his cock already hard enough to fucking cut glass and that’s _before_ Eliot crushes their mouths together, a bruise of a kiss that makes him breathless and eager, arousal shocking through his entire body.

“Eliot, _god_ , you have to—”

Transfixed, he watches as Eliot works quick and careful through a series of tuts that ends with a delicate trace over Quentin’s palm, oil spreading messily over their fingers. Quentin lets himself be guided until he’s pressing against Eliot, rubbing gently over his hole and sliding one finger inside where he’s soft and warm, the angle awkward but worth it to see him like this; Eliot’s eyes dark with pleasure as he fucks slowly back on Quentin’s hand, clinging and clenching around him in a way that’s driving Quentin slowly insane. His hips shudder, pressing into the mattress; he’s _inside_ Eliot, his fingers are making him gasp, making him grip Quentin’s hair tight, his body bringing Eliot’s the pleasure he deserves. He can barely breathe while Eliot grips the base of his cock, slicking him up generously, fist tight and hot as he strokes him, shifting forward so Quentin’s fingers slip out of him. He looks on wide-eyed as Eliot uses his shoulder to balance, taking what he needs, sinking down so fucking slowly, head thrown back, and he’s the most—he’s so—

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Quentin says hoarsely, holding onto the sharp curves of his hips, laughing in disbelief, raking through the dark tangle of hair on Eliot’s chest, revelling in the sweat-damp slide of his skin. “So—god, so fucking _hot_ , I—”

A low, needy, animal sound escapes him as Eliot slides up on his knees and sinks back down with a soft groan that makes Quentin feel shivering hot all over, makes him feel desperate and yearning for more—not more of what they’ve lost or could’ve had, but more of this right now, of Eliot rocking back down as Quentin surges up to meet him, more of Eliot wrapping his arms around Quentin’s neck and pulling their bodies close.

They’ll have this again.

Quentin will have his sweat-slicked salted skin, his lips soft and open, the frantic need to touch and be touched. He’ll have every part of him; the jut of his clavicle beneath the scrape of Quentin’s teeth, the curves of his shoulders traced beneath the palms of Quentin’s hands.

Eliot’s hips roll slow and sensuous, his cock dragging over Quentin’s stomach as he leans over to jerk Quentin’s head back by the scruff of his neck. A sharp sting of pleasure, a rush of blood. Heat flaring through him, Quentin moans as Eliot crowds him back against the headboard, fingertips skimming over Quentin’s lips before he pushes inside, fucking Quentin’s mouth wide and open. Quentin too feels cracked open, shattered, Eliot’s fingers sliding rough inside him, the crushing darkness of the last few months all coalescing with the sharpness of the need that’s crooking in his belly; a strangled sound cut from somewhere deep, hips pressing up in a graceless can’t-get-enough rhythm as Eliot replaces his fingers with his tongue.

His mouth is wet and bruised, and his hand fits roughly around the thick, hard length of Eliot’s cock—god, his cock is so fucking _pretty_ , long and perfect and twitching with need. Quentin gives him firm, twisting strokes that make Eliot groan slack into his mouth, their bodies eager for release, hard and fast and violent in their wanting.

“Eliot—” How have they said so much—how has _Eliot_ said so much, and still, Quentin can’t quite say—? There’s new trust knitting over the cracked wounds, the deep valley of scars and long-held injuries they’ve inflicted on one another. But. Part of Quentin can’t help but think of it—even now while he’s inside Eliot, while he’s almost incoherent with the pleasure of getting exactly what he wants—there’s a small part of him thinking about _why the fuck not?_ and he hadn’t thought it through, not really, not at all, and when he’d thought Eliot didn’t want him, that was one thing— “El, _fuck_ —” He couldn’t blame him for that, but Eliot _had_ , he’d actually wanted Quentin, but he’d said those things anyway— “You’re, god, I—” He’d said those things _because_ he’d wanted—Quentin’s nearly sobbing now, so close to spilling himself inside Eliot’s body for a second time—the thought of which is so painfully erotic that he feels almost like he’s actually been punched in the gut. Eliot’s draped over him, and he can’t say it, can’t say it even to himself, even though he _knows_ he’ll say it soon, he _wants_ to, but right now, Quentin needs to keep this small sacred thing safe for a while longer.

His body’s jerking up, hands splayed wide over Eliot’s ass, delighting in the pulse and jump of his muscles as Quentin slams him down. Pressure’s rising tight and aching, and part of him can’t even believe that he’s inside Eliot right now, that Eliot would _let_ him, though he knows it’s ridiculous, and that there’s an undercurrent of something terribly heteronormative there that he’s in no state to examine right now—

“Does it feel good, baby?” Eliot asks, raw and bright and open, and _fuck_ , Quentin loves him, has loved him for so long without ever really admitting that was what he was doing.

“Always, so fucking good,” he moans, delirious with the truth of it. And Eliot’s right. Quentin _is_ angry. He’s fucking _furious_ about what Eliot did to them, about what Quentin had become in order to save him—but he’s grateful, too, that they’ve been pushed to this hard-fought place where neither of them are capable of running anywhere except towards each other.

Eliot’s soft mouth finds the crook of his neck, teeth dragging over the same spot he’d bitten earlier, and Quentin shivers, head tipping back as he grips the nape of Eliot’s neck to hold him close. His voice is more tender than Quentin would’ve thought possible, and he can’t believe it’s for him; this is all for him now—

“Q, darling—” and Quentin comes when he says it, brought to the knife edge and over by that sharp-cracked shudder falling from his mouth. It doesn’t take long for Eliot to follow, spilling over Quentin’s stomach with broken laughter, his body brought to life with pleasure just as he deserves.

Eliot’s pressing kisses over his neck, his jaw, is pushing the hair back from his face. He says it again, “Q, darling,” soft and reverent, and Quentin’s body lurches in wonder, sensitive in the aftershock. They cling and tremble together a while longer, until eventually he slips out of Eliot’s body altogether and they collapse next to each other, Quentin wriggling into his arms.

“Fuck,” Eliot says weakly, still shaking. “That was—”

“Good,” Quentin mumbles into his chest. “It was really fucking good.” It doesn’t feel like anything earth-shattering to jerk his hands into the clean-up tut—magic can be useful, Quentin remembers keenly, in moments like these. They slide under the covers together, kissing and clinging to one another, Quentin in awe of how good it feels to curl his leg between Eliot’s, to have the deep pressure of his body caged around him.

“Hey,” he says, tracing patterns through Eliot’s chest hair. Incredibly, he feels a faint flutter of arousal as his fingers tighten and flex, despite having come twice already. “So, uh. Your dirty talk’s gotten a lot more… experimental.” Quentin grins up at him, surprised to see a blush rising over Eliot’s cheeks.

“Oh, god—”

“I’m not, like, complaining.” He lets his fingers trail over Eliot’s arm, thumbing over the bump of his wrist bone before tangling their fingers together. Their bodies are pressing flush, and every tiny shift and movement feels heightened, sparks still crackling between them. “Really, it was weirdly hot. And kinda cathartic?”

Eliot groans. “Okay, but it’s hardly all your erotic fantasies come true at once, is it?”

“I dunno, I came pretty hard,” Quentin says thoughtfully. “Twice, in fact. So maybe you’re onto something. Tapped into a whole new market of, uh, eclectic erotica.”

Eliot pokes him in the side, and Quentin laughs, wriggling. They sink back into each other’s arms, unable and unwilling to part even for a few moments, whispering nonsense and endearments, finding each other’s mouths again in quietly joyful kisses that are almost painfully soft.

Things aren’t settled between them, not by a long shot, but Quentin doesn’t need either of them to say it to know that they love each other. That this time, loving Eliot isn’t something Quentin has to crumple up tight in his chest until the feeling warps beyond his recognition. This time, it belongs to both of them, here between the press of their bodies, and in this warm room he’s never felt so much at home in as he does right now, and ready too, for the world beyond it.

This time, it’s not just Quentin.


End file.
